Years pass and the floorboards in the attic
creak. A memory of an untouched dollhouse,
a miniature carousel, a stuffed elephant
with a black plastic eye hanging on
by its last two threads. Dust so
thick it chokes, floats—
at sunset the day’s last beams
shoot straight through the round window
that resembles a clock with no hands,
just a tic-tac-toe grid from the
freshly painted white grilles.
If she knocks, I’ll open the door
and let down the ladder, sure.
She’ll sneeze and feel hair in
the back of her throat she didn’t
know she had.
Nick Godec’s work has been published in Grey Sparrow, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Rue Scribe, and Steam Ticket. He studied history at Columbia University, received his MBA from Columbia Business School and now works in the financial industry. Nick lives in New York City with his wife, Julia, and their miniature pinscher, Emma.