Suitcases

It’s funny the things in life we remember like a dream. You know, with that vague, vignette look about them. That’s how it is with the suitcases. One a bright red coral color, the other dusty white. One larger than the other. Samosonite sells hard shell cases like these. They are heavy. Yet, not as heavy as the memory that holds them.

The cases sit there in the dark hallway. Only the morning sun coming through the curtained windows offers light. There they are, burning into my mind’s eye. Waiting on the shag carpet in the short hallway, just at the end of the small one story house. I feel alone, just me and the suitcases. The others are there, yet my memory does not hold them.

The focus moves to a crouching silhouette caught by the afternoon sun. My white cable knit shawl tells me it is Sunday. I stand at the entrance to the hallway staring toward the bathroom, looking past where the suitcases once waited. It was there under the window the figure sat clutching a note. I hear nothing. There is a voice, yet my memory does not hold it.