Suitcase

My suitcase is full of memories. Some are painful. Some are joyful. All make me me.

I go to my suitcase and carefully unpack each piece.

I hold my memories up to the light and examine them.

I make two piles.

One for the intact, unblemished, shrink-wrapped memories.

One for the wrinkled, dog-eared, tear stained.

I scoop the latter and walk to the queen-sized bed. I lay them out like the clothes of a child the night before the first day of school.

I stop. I think. I remember. I feel.

I travel to a place where voices float in salty air.
Where the grass is long.
Where milk sits on the counter.

Before coffee.
Before heels.

I stop. I think. I remember. I feel. I write.