You Think You Have Time

You think you have time.

Earth’s core grew 10 times its size in the past month. Scientists predicted, at this rate, humans had two months to evacuate the planet.

They were wrong.

“Hello?” It was 4 a.m. when the call came.

“Ms. Henderson, this is Rachel from NASA. Due to unforeseen circumstances, we’ve expeditated your evacuation to this afternoon at 2 p.m. Please head to your designated launch station at this time. Shuttles will not wait for delayed passengers.”

She wasn’t finished talking, but I stopped listening. My evacuation was supposed to be weeks away. I hadn’t considered packing. All I’d done was spend time with friends, get drunk, and have sex with people I’d never see again.

The new orders hit me like an asteroid. My old life was becoming extinct. What a waste. What a wasted life.

Tears came fast and heavy, uncontrollable. The weight was too much for my mental to bear. For a while I just stared at the ceiling, crying. If I’d only had a few more days, maybe I could’ve done something meaningful. Said a few goodbyes. Said a few hellos. Now, it was all over, and I had nothing to show for it.

I was told I'd need to fit my entire 45-year existence into a single suitcase. The thought of doing so felt like carrying a boulder up a hill. So, I’d put it off, just like everything else.

Now, I’d run out of time. Where to even begin? Coffee. I knew how to drink coffee. Start with something easy.

On the bed lay the government issued suitcase, not big enough to fit my clothes for a 3-day vacation. I imagined my entire life being condensed into Tetris blocks, neatly falling into the space provided in perfect unison. This made me laugh. My life didn’t work like that. This was impossible.

After two cups of coffee, I was tired of feeling sorry for myself. Throwing things left and right, I ripped through my belongings. Clothes would be provided for us at our new space station, so the thousands of dollars hanging in my closet were worth nothing now. Still, I considered how dreadful it would be to dress in a white jumpsuit every day. Not me. I couldn’t do that. These clothes were a part of me. These were memories. This was my personality on display.

“What do you think, Mr. Suitcase?” I asked to the inanimate object, “Just one sweater?”

A favorite black and white wool piece caught my eye, with fuzz so soft, you’d want it as a blanket. This would keep me warm on lonely nights and remind me of my old couch, a warm fire, and a good book. It went in.

Scanning my room, I realized how meaningless half of this stuff was. All my knick-knacks and chochkas, store-bought paintings and inspirational quotes, and the big TV that hung up on the wall. None of this meant anything to me. How much time and money had I wasted on all this? Did I own anything meaningful?

I dug through the drawers until my heart skipped a beat. An old photo, buried away at the bottom. My mother and me, smiling out on the beach a few years before she passed. After she died, I took it down from my dresser, too upset to look at it anymore. I miss her. We had a wonderful relationship.

For some time, I sat and remembered, staring at the 4x6 snapshot. The tears came again, this time slower, as I remembered the breeze blowing kisses across the shoreline and the cool sand tucked between my toes. How fast that moment came and went. How badly I wished to go back.

Carefully, I tucked the photo into the suitcase.

“OK, Mr. Suitcase, I’m gonna need some help,” I said at last, wiping away the remaining tears, “What else will I need for the rest of my life?”

“Funny,” said Mr. Suitcase, which I imagined sounded like my father, passing on his infinite wisdom, “You’ve only been looking at your life as an adult. For nearly half your life, you were a kid. Why don’t you…” I ran away from the voice in my head.

Dashing down into the basement, I threw open several storage bins that held my childhood. Medals, awards, and plagues crashed upon the floor as I delved. They would mean nothing where I was going.

But my life, my whole life, would come with me, even in my old age. I’d need to remember. I’d need to remember the child within me; the little girl walking around in her diaper on a hot summer day, playing house with her stuffed animals, picking dandelions and daisies. I could see the smile on her face, her long, golden hair, living without care. I’d need that.

Then I found it. Raggedy and dusty, Mrs. Gentry.

She was a teddy bear with a long blonde wig and glasses. My favorite toy as a child. No, that’s not right. She was my first friend. I took her everywhere, or so my mother says. I remember sitting with her out in the summer sun reading books for hours, talking about princes and princesses, and imagining what life would be like when I got older. Seeing her made me feel young again, bringing me back to simpler times. She went in.

Almost full now. Almost time to go. I imagined the next few hours in my head, arriving at the spaceport alongside couples and families, watching them comfort one another and stride bravely into their new life. Then there’s me, standing alone. I’d been lonely before, but there was always someone to fill the bed. This was different. A new kind of loneliness, like no one showing up to your funeral.

Sadness was replaced by a lightbulb. An old poem shot into my mind. Out into the living room I went. There I found on my coffee table, a collection of poems. I flipped to the appropriate page and read what I needed to hear.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

“And Still, I Rise by Maya Angelou.” The world Maya lived in would suddenly be turned to ash, but her words still rang true. I’d need to remember them, so the poems went in.

I filled the remaining space with odds and ends; my favorite pair of socks, a coffee mug with a print of my old dog, Spartacus, and my digital camera, something I’d hardly used. Up in space, maybe now I’ll have the time to give the hobby a real go.

Shutting the lid on the suitcase was like closing the top of a coffin. My old life was dead, and now, a chance to start fresh, with all the memories of the life I had before.

I’d miss all of this. Part of me wished I gave it the attention it deserved, gave it more of myself. But, for some reason, I wasn’t so sad anymore. Soon I’d have a new home, with new faces, and a chance to make right on all the mistakes I’d made down here.

Staring at that suitcase, filled with all I loved, I made a promise to myself, not to make the same mistake again.