The Suitcase

Warning: Theme of death and abandonment or slight child neglect

I stared at the smooth, baby blue suitcase sitting in front of me. Little objects, either worn or as good as new, surrounded it like a multicolored halo. All sat on my bed, looking ahead like the cold eyes that too lay, staring at the ceiling.

It didn’t take long for me to realize it was myself on that bed, my hair grey and skin wrinkled. I had been taken from this world and was packing for another. Everything had to be packed, only in this suitcase.

With a small sigh, I grabbed the first object: an old, empty bottle of honey. I could almost hear my mother’s sharp, needle-like voice saying ‘Why would you bring that?’

She didn’t remember the week when Grandma Gianne visited. Mother had spent the whole week locked in her room, her mascara dripping down her face. Dad’s picture had been stripped from all the picture frames, as well as his things and any wish for him to come back. Grandma had come over that week, playing with me and almost willing me to forget about my emotionally inept mother and missing, back-stabbing father, distracting me with crayons and paper crowns, which I colored myself.

Despite the grand efforts of Grandma Gianne, I still ended up screaming and crying for my father, my throat raw and my eyes swollen. Tantrums of this magnitude weren't quite normal for a five year old, and my mother would leave Grandma Gianne with me, scared of the girl she had once loved. So, Grandma would go to the kitchen, letting me scream. She would get a mug, fill it up with hot water, and hang a tea bag on the rim.

The first time she did this, I had been slamming my fists on the floor, wailing for my father. She ignored me.

After she had set the piping hot cup on the counter, Grandma walked over to me. She was holding a little plastic container, filled with golden, sticky liquid. “Izzie? Do you want to try something?” she said, kneeling down. I continued screaming loudly, writhing on the floor. Suddenly, I heard the satisfying click of the bottle being opened, and I stopped screaming for a second to watch as Grandma put a drop of the sweet liquid on her finger. She held it up to her mouth, and then licked it off. By that point, I had stopped screaming and kicking all together. I slowly crawled forward, affixed on the plastic bottle shaped like a teddy bear. She offered some to me, and I gladly took it.

Next thing I know, I’m sitting at the counter, drinking tea, soothing and coating my throat with the hot liquid, simultaneously feeding it gulps of honey. Grandma Gianne continued this method, well into my and her own older age. By the time I was 20, I would regularly visit Grandma, and I still did until her death when I was 30.

So, yes, while mom was locked in her room, sobbing about something that couldn’t change, she completely missed the significance of a bottle of honey, given to me by a grey haired, boney fingered woman that soon became my best friend.

With care, I set the honey bottle down in the uppermost corner of the suitcase.

I then looked to the next object: a violin.

The wood shimmered in the dim lighting of my room, and I could almost hear the melodic velcro-like music. I had never been given the bow, so sadly the instrument sat soundless in front of me. I picked it up gently, the ebony fibers groaning against my hands. Again, my mother would have retorted trenchantly, saying, 'Why would you keep something of your father’s? You remember what he did!' But, she tried to forget everything about father, but I didn’t. I’ve tried to remember everything.

He was, if you haven’t guessed, a violinist. And, before my father left, our family used to be happy.

He would come home from his long days rehearsing for performances and, despite being tired, my father would get out his violin and play. His arm would move back and forth and his eyes would be shut with concentration. My mother would take my hands and we would dance together, spinning soulfully to the tune of fibers being rubbed together. This went on for many nights, with the only quiet times being when he had a performance.

Then, he found someone new.

The other violinist, Abigail. Next thing I knew, his things were gone, as if those nights of familial happiness never happened. He did leave me something, though. His violin. Apparently, he wanted to start over, and truly wanted to forget about those nights.

So, even though I still resented him for leaving, I set the violin right under the bottle of honey.

I leaned back, only to be momentarily blinded by the glasses that seemed to be the next thing on my list. I picked them up and slid them on my face, looking around my room with blurry satisfaction.

Mother would have actually liked this. After all, she was the one who gave them to me. It was only 10 years ago, when she was lying on that hospital bed. Her breathing was labored, and she stared almost blankly at the ceiling. I was next to her, holding her cold hand.

“Isabella,” she coughed out, turning her head slightly to the side.

“Yes, mother?” Even in her old age, I had to be polite.

“Do you still love me? I know I wasn’t a perfect mom, but…” she began, her eyes clouding with tears and her face trembling.

I leaned in, planting a kiss on her cheek, saying “Of course, Mother. I love you.”

She moved my hair behind my ear, then slid off her glasses. “Can you take care of these for me?”

I nodded, taking the Harry Potter-like, black framed glasses from her hand. The glass glimmered in the dim lighting of the hospital room. I set them on my forehead, and then leaned back down to grab my mother’s hand.

“I love you, Izzie.”

“Love you too, mom.”

You can guess what happened next.

Slowly, a tear running down the side of my face, I took the glasses off and polished the glass with the end of my soft t-shirt. I put them in the suitcase.

I stretched, my arms pulling back like elastic bands. Only hours ago, if I had stretched like this, my bones would have creaked like unoiled hinges. Now, with my new found calm and renewal in death, I could stretch. With a bout of childlike glee, I flipped over to do a cartwheel, laughing when I landed on my butt on the wooden floor. If I had done that mere hours ago, I would either be rushed to the hospital or have downstairs neighbors yelling from my floorboards.

In my reverie of wanting to stick the landing with a reality of landing on my bottom, my foot had knocked the bed and sent a waft of paper down. I watched as it landed next to my leg, and then I reached over to pick it up.

It was a small folded piece of paper. With my wrinkled fingers, I slowly unfolded it, my eyes widening as I realized what it was. It was wordsearch, the most recent one I did. It still had the neat pencil marks of yesterday, and I smiled.

When I was younger, I really liked words. I did spelling bees, wrote long stories, and talked non stop. But, as most do in old age, my mind went cloudy and I couldn’t remember words a lot. A few times I forgot how to say ‘Doorknob’ and after mistaking it for a ‘uh, hand grab thing’ 5 times too many, my wife started bringing me word searches from the newspaper. It helped me remember words, and it was something we bonded over.

But, then, when she died, I stopped doing word searches. After all, I had no one to bring them to me and I felt my intelligence and life slipping away.

Then, my daughter came home.

She had been gone for many years, making a living off of traveling the world and taking pictures, which I loved. And, when she came back, she started bringing me newspapers. She made sure I did it, despite my protests.

“No, Katie, it reminds me of your mom, I can’t-”

“Mom. You know she would want you to do it.”

“Yeah, well-”

“Mom?”

“Fine.”

That was our conversation for many months until last night, when, well…

I died.

Words have and always will be a favorite of mine.

With increasing softness, I folded the newspaper clipping and set it down in the suitcase.

Taking a deep breath, I look at the four items.

Why only those? Your life can’t possibly be that easy to sum up, a voice in my head says.

No, I respond, I can’t, but these objects shaped my life and they led to who I was.

I take the metal zipper in one hand and with the other I flip the top of the suitcase over, slowly moving the zipper around the polycarbonate shell. With a heave, I slide the suitcase off the side of the bed and take the handle. I start pulling, walking to the doorway where a giant rectangle of light awaits me.