The Suitcase

The chances of the impossible and unthinkable were lessening by the minute, evolving into a hideously possible and extremely thinkable reality. The air quality index was no longer in the very dangerous 300s but had crept stealthily overnight into the lethal 400s and was menacingly inching higher. Evacuation loomed like a reality that could no longer be shoved into the ‘maybe’ corner of the mind. She could hear the muffled voices from the street. She knew all the people on her street were trying to get a grip on their sanity. Indeed, they had to. It was staggering.  

She looked out the large picture window in the living room and spotted a group of neighbors in the middle of the street, a palpable anxiety around them. She mused how people needed validation of their joys and sorrows. Although many professed to be independent and ‘loner’, but these were shallow claims. In times such as these, when life took a turn for incomprehensibility, trepidation, and dread, sought a calming hand to cling to. She contemplated joining them. But decided against it. Much as she wanted to, there was a more pressing concern. 

In the three-bedroom home on 9950 Clifton Ave., she was grateful that she was facing the weight of an inevitable evacuation just for herself. She was deeply saddened for the families with young children who were helplessly watching their homes burn. But overnight, that same regret, fear, apprehension, and foreboding now filled her heart too. It was as if a demon had suddenly assumed physical form and stood in front of her. She knew she had no option but to run, for the fiery demon refused to be challenged and could not be confronted. 

She stood in front of the memory wall–50 years of memories. She saw herself as a baby in her father’s arms and then she saw her own twins, years later, in the very same arms. There were school pictures, graduation portraits, and wedding groups. Most of the people were gone and had become precious memories in her mind or on her, almost sacred, memory wall. She had to save all the pictures. They were sustenance for the soul. She reached up for a frame. But stopped short. They all looked good together–a happy family. How could she separate them? Who should she take? Who could she leave behind?

She took a deep breath and walked into the living room. More memories. The pottery Noor had made in her high school ceramics class and the cushions she had embroidered when she had been struck with creativity in college. Noah had been a superb pencil sketcher who sketched only cars, trains, and airplanes. His framed sketches, that she had fished out from the recycle bin, carelessly abandoned by the young artist, littered the walls. They were dearly beloved. But the suitcase was small. She moved distractedly towards the kitchen. Years of stories were strewn here too. 

She and Adam had traveled a lot. He had left her too early. Cancer had been the demon in his life and it too had refused to be confronted. There were dainty qahva glasses from Turkey, mugs embossed with the Parthenon from Athens, and a set of serving platters from Paris. The ivory handle spoons from Nigeria were something she used every day, traveling back in time as she stirred her tea every morning.

What should she choose? What could she leave? The 5x8 rug she was standing on was a handwoven wool one from Kabul when they had stopped there on their way to Algeria. And there were wall hangings from Morocco. The world was strewn all around her. She turned her head and glanced at the empty suitcase blankly. How could anyone fit a life in it?

She returned to the living room and sat down on the armchair, a hand-carved Chinoit wood piece from Pakistan that she and Adam had reupholstered themselves because the original gaunt orange brocade upholstery did not match their living room furniture.

Her eye traveled to a hand-embroidered Sindhi tapestry on the wall. It had been a gift from one of Adam's Pakistani colleagues, who had bought it, especially for them, knowing their penchant for rare collectibles. Adam had wanted to get it framed to keep it dust-free, but she had argued how a contemporary frame and glass would ruin its ethnic 'taste and essence'.

Reminiscing was exhausting. She felt emotionally drained. There was less than half an hour left now. The suitcase was still empty, and still more life was tucked in the other rooms of the house. She took a deep breath. She could actually taste the smoke in her mouth now, indicating that the air quality had deteriorated even more over the past hour. 

A whole life. A single suitcase. One hour. Was this what her entire life had boiled down to?

The tall graceful woman who walked out of 9950 Clifton Ave. half an hour later only had a laptop bag with her. Neighbors who were evacuating with her only thought about this fleetingly for a moment before turning their harried minds back to their own catastrophic dilemmas. If the woman was, literally, losing her mind, they could do nothing about it. They were metaphorically losing theirs too.  

It hadn’t taken her too long to reach a decision. Life was the most precious thing at that moment in that house and she was grateful to have a chance to save that. If she had life and health, there could be new memories, more joyful moments and adventures, and a whole new cornucopia of experiences. What she was leaving behind was still in her mind–all the memories, love, years, and people. The fire couldn't extinguish any of it. However, for as long as her health, life, and skills remained, life was going to go on. 

When the sinister flames crept in silently into 9950 Clifton Ave., one of the first things they devoured greedily was the empty suitcase in the middle of the family room.