It's already 11, and the moon's face smiles at me.
Dinner has long said goodbye, but a crumb of a roll still mingles with an iota of wine on the corner of my lip; unnoticed.
My excitement fills the room to its brim, bubbling out.
The light throws off the coloring in my painting, and it's time for me to pack.
Revealing select hangers of their cloth burden, and checking how many 3 oz bottles I can bring in my carry-on, my eyes flit from task to selection.
My contracted pupils extracting the parts of my life necessary in the next two weeks.
Heaps turn into piles;
Piles undergo riveting inspection;
My life is condensed into a few square feet.
I'm leaving what I know, shaving the edges of my comfort.
After a half-eaten breakfast, a silent ride to the airport, and a rushed kiss goodbye, you, my suitcase, are all that connects me to my past.
You become my only constant.
Now, my clothes are no longer neatly folded, but strewn about within your walls.
My own saline tears cannot break your shell; they were not meant for you. You are coming home with me.
I step into my house.
It will takes some time for it to become my home.
I come bearing gifts, remnants of my late reality.
An origami bird, that has stayed here the whole time, at my side.
Her wings are tired from flying, yet she did no work.
I zip open my suitcase, and she flattens into a single sheet.
The bird that was so real yesterday, is just flimsy paper today.
I can fill up the space in my room anymore.
Did I shed piece of my self, because it never felt this way before.
Maybe I have too much, and there isn't enough space in my room.
It doesn't feel like me.
My fingers type sluggishly, my pills stay in their bottles, and my dogs look at my like an origami bird, fragile, and inconstant.
All that is proof that I was once a part of this house, this family, this life, is what was saved by my suitcase.
