Emotional Baggage

The suitcase sits at the foot of the bed, its brown leather scuffed by an Albany airport conveyor belt on our last trip to Cancun. Henry said not to worry, the bag could be replaced. We’d get one with omnidirectional casters to make the terminals easier. He said we deserved something sturdier, more stylish—but I’m not the kind of person who chases newer things.

This suitcase believes in me.

At least, it used to.

I shove aside the box for the robot vacuum I bought four years ago, blocking the path to the closet. It died on its first expedition and I haven’t yet bothered to rescue it. I take down jeans, sweatshirts, t-shirts, and a light jacket, most with the tags still on. I keep checking the forecast, but springtime temperatures in the Northeast remain all over the place. Locals on Reddit suggest layers, but I am only allowed one bag. I won’t make it a month without the ceramic cat Henry gave me for our fourth anniversary. A treasure I confide in. I crawl over stacked magazines to the bedside table and wrest her from among tea cups, half-finished novels, and a plate with unidentifiable food residue.

I tell her we’re taking a trip.

Neither of us can believe it.

I roll her into the silk scarf Henry bought me for my first day of work at the bank, lovingly depositing her inside the compartment meant for unmentionables.

Socks, underwear, and bras—right.

It’s been so long since I last packed for a trip that I nearly forgot.

I scan the room for the bag with the recently purchased briefs, but there are too many to count. Inside them: discounted gardening shears, some plant food, and antacids three years out of date.

I make a mental note and move on.

The rideshare will be here in an hour.

Our wedding album tops a leaning heap of bags and boxes where a chair used to be, or maybe still is. I wipe the dust from its cover and can’t believe how young Henry looks in the pictures, how handsome with his full head of black hair and those blue eyes. I smile at the faded Polaroid. The album goes into the suitcase with the cat, scarf, jeans, sweaters, and t-shirts.

I shuffle into the living room. A wall of Amazon boxes diffuses the sunlight through the windows. I collect the journal I’ve been writing in since Henry’s funeral seven years ago. The pen Henry used for crossword puzzles. The World’s Greatest Husband Mug I gifted him on Father’s Day. We never had children. It wasn’t his fault. A shoebox full of greeting cards in his handwriting. His terry cloth bathrobe. The receipts from his wallet, among the last things he touched.

These sweaters take up too much room.

I remove all but the lightest of them.

The pen goes inside the mug.

I keep only the must-have cards—Valentine’s Day and anniversary cards, mostly. Who needs another reminder of birthdays? But there’s Henry’s New England Patriots sweatshirt that I like to sleep in. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, but I can’t bring myself to wash it. His pillowcase. The blanket we used to cuddle under on the couch watching Jeopardy. The stuffed panda he bought me at the Central Park Zoo.

Four are probably too many pairs of jeans.

I take out two.

The suitcase sighs.

I search the Internet for packing videos that suggest I roll clothing to save space. T-shirts roll inside jeans. A sweater inside a sweatshirt. Henry’s sweatshirt is rolled into his bathrobe, but the blanket has to go. It simply will not fit. Not with the figurine, mug, journal, pen—and shoot, I still need at least one spare pair of shoes, pajamas, and a couple of dresses for dinners out. I trek back to the closet, pick the lightest, shortest, most flattering of dresses, and roll them together. A pair of flexible strap sandals. My toothbrush stares at me from the cup it sits in on the sink in our bathroom, which has gotten harder to get to these days—impossible to shower in, but I prefer sponge baths. I collect it, a half-empty tube of paste, stick deodorant, a brush, and several of the bras and underwear from the drying rack erected inside the bathtub. I roll what I can, but there are underwires to consider, solid toiletries that cannot shrink. I tuck them around the edges and close the lid that gaps at least an inch.

I press, lean, wrestle with the scuffed leather, but can’t get it shut.

My chest tightens—from exertion, from anxiety, from breathing the mold I refuse to admit exists to the primary care physician who has diagnosed me with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. Sinus infections. Bronchial infections. Fungal infections. Even cellulitis.

I bought an air purifier but can’t get to it to change the filters. A dehumidifier for dampness significant enough that the ceiling fan blades sag. It worked for a while before becoming lost behind incoming deliveries and the spoils of too many shopping trips. Now that I can no longer empty the water reservoir, it has shut off.

I shove the box it came in from the foot of my bed and drag the suitcase onto the crumb-covered carpet, plopping down on the lid. The bag groans in displeasure as I shift my weight, pressing with hip bones and elbows as I inch the zipper forward, forcing it to stop resisting. I’m sweat-soaked by the time it concedes, sad about the things I cannot fit, and second-guessing whether this is something I can or should be doing.

There are fewer than thirty minutes until my driver arrives.

My flight departs in under two hours.

I tip the bag onto its wheels, and Henry was right. We needed casters. Something sturdier. I tug the bag by its handle and it might as well be anchored. A stabbing pain sparks in my lower back when I try to lift it. I collapse onto the bed, ashamed, afraid, and ready to give up when the brochure for the minimalist retreat—the one that ordered me to pack my entire life into one suitcase—reminds me: “You don’t have to carry everything to keep what matters.”

The suitcase waits.

It believed in me once.

Maybe it still does?