he's not there

my son's toys
are still in the attic.
the ball and glove,
the wind up
toys, the electronic
boxes
that hypnotized long
hours of his
youth.
the figures, plastic
superheroes he
worshiped
and lost himself in.
his small clothes
and shoes.
so much of
him is in the attic,
just steps away,
up the stairs, where I
could pull
the string and light
it up
anytime I desire.
but he's not there.