saying goodbye to my . . . suitcase?
/When Macy’s had a sale—the kind of offer you can’t refuse—I decided to send my old suitcase to the graveyard of high-tech nylon and inner mesh pockets. I bought a spanking new Travelpro that—you know—rolls faster than a speeding bullet, is stronger than a locomotive, and leaps tall escalators in a single bound.
Then I marched to the attic and dragged out the worn, tattered, beaten, battered Ricardo I’d been lugging for fifteen years. I parked it on the sidewalk next to the bathroom trash and leftover dinner. Then I strutted back to the house slapping one hand triumphantly against the other. Good riddance. I’m done with that baby.
I could see it from my window, waiting like a lost sock, a single shoe, a lone teddy bear left dirty and useless. Waiting, as it did so many times, waiting for me. It looked like a broken-down hooker needing one last fling. After years of flat-on-its-back service, could I toss it aside for a younger piece of virgin plastic?
I rolled it back to the house, realizing it deserved a proper goodbye.
Dear Suitcase,
You followed me everywhere like a dedicated soldier. I can hardly say that about anything or anyone. I was the leader; you were the follower. No matter how fast I buzzed through airports, you stayed with me, you rolled while I ran. Loyal as you were, yet big and bulbous, sometimes you embarrassed me. I wanted to pretend you weren’t mine. Still, you stayed true blue, sturdy and stout, as I paid extra at airport check-in because you held so darn much.
I stuffed you like a poor goose, bumped you down steps, kicked you forward, pulled you back, sat on you, slept on you, yelled at you because I wanted to be free of you. Once I almost threw you over a hill, though you steadfastly held every single thing I needed. If you’d been lost, I’d have been lost, too.
You followed me surer than a show dog at Westminster, despite no training, no treats, no pats, no warm bed. You were manhandled, suffocated, left shivering in the corner of a chilly, soulless cargo hold while I flew high and mighty above you. Then you did it again and again and again.
You were rerouted to places I’d never been while I, a madwoman stuck in a smelly outfit, paced frantically looking for you. Once I thought about nothing but you for days, talked about nothing but you, wanted nothing but you, until you faithfully reappeared in charge of every wrinkled T-shirt I owned.
I was so happy to see you, I cried. In your own rugged way, I think you cried, too. Was that a new tear on your plastic rim, or a salty tear from the rim of your hidden eye?
You are the most worldly, helpful object I’ve ever had. And in your voiceless way, you know things. Who stole my jean jacket out of you in Marrakech, how it felt to have your body shrink-wrapped in Johannesburg so no creep would put their hands inside of you, how dizzying it is to circle round and round the carousel, hoping some stranger won’t mistake you for her own.
You know, old friend, as I gaze at you upright and rolling but well scuffed and frayed, I wonder if you still have a few more journeys left? I must admit, I’ve got some serious scuffs of my own.
Tell you what. How about I put you next to the new guy, and maybe you can teach that top ace what really goes on in the luggage hold, how you won those scars, year after year, mile after mile.
Stay ready and able, my friend. I have a feeling any day now, for old times’ sake, you and I—two of a well-worn kind—will go a-travelin’.