UNPACKING A LIFE

Who would have thought that packing the suitcase would, in fact, mean unpacking your whole life?

I had always prided myself on being able to live out of a suitcase.

“Oh, we have moved so much that I am actually used to living out of a suitcase!”, was my favourite form of identity I loved to present to the world. My anthem actually.

It was also the image I loved to share with others to show what a free spirit I was, “hard to chain down, ready to take off in a blink of an eye”.

Yes, I did feel as I if I had no roots because neither my father’s nor my mother’s family lived nearby and, in addition, a few more facts contributed to my sense of restlessness and the hard-to-scratch itch to pack up and leave:

1. We had moved a lot,

2. I only felt at home at my grandma’s village (which was not an option anymore),

3. I felt at home at airports,

4. I treated hotel rooms, Airbnb and Booking rentals as home.

In my late twenties I had discovered that the sense of home and belonging had nothing to do with family or physical property. It had to do with people. Early on, I had decided my home was to be where my man was.

And now was the time to pack up my suitcase, travel across the globe, join that man and prove myself right. Or wrong…

However, there is one undeniable truth.

The suitcase is always smaller than a life should be.

I had bought the biggest one and now it was lying open on the bed like a gutted whale with the Mick Jagger mouth, waiting to swallow whatever I needed it to.

Oh, there was another thing I had prided myself on – I always claimed I was not attached to stuff.

“I sure as hell would not be buried with all those things so why bother?”, was another of my overused statements.

Well, as much as I wanted to believe in that, the things that surrounded me WERE a huge part of my life. I did get rid of so much furniture when I inherited the apartment. The room was Zen-simple - but tonight, every object seemed to glow with a strange, stubborn importance.

How did everything become so much? I thought.

OK, I’ll start with clothes.

Clothes are simple. Practical. Neutral witnesses to a life. The dresses went in, then my favourite jackets, underwear, well-fitting bras (very important in a woman’s life) and then I felt like screaming.

Towels! I had invested so much into those soft, creamy things that practically caressed my skin while absorbing the post-shower water. These were bought on a flea market, surprisingly high-quality. Those were the gifts from a friend in France, towel versions of cashmere. No, such investment had to get into the suitcase.

And the bedsheets! Oh, my silky-cotton friends! I am not leaving without you!

I laughed when I realized I talked to them in a French accent!

I chose the most beautiful sets and rolled them in. Done!

Blouses, shirts…Do I really need them? Pants? Jeans?

These are the yellow pants I wore the day we got sunburnt in D.C. These are the Lucky jeans I bought right after that party....

The thought arrived suddenly, uninvited. We were stretched across the marble tiles, our feet in the water, at the World War II Memorial.

These pants remembered being rolled up to my knees, the sunlight bouncing off the water, the smell of warm grass, some cute ducks nearby, someone laughing and saying, “Oh my God! My calves are getting so dark!”

The pants went into the suitcase anyway. They were obedient. I rolled them into tight cylinders, their pockets filled with my crystals and jewellery, lining them neatly along one side like quiet soldiers.

You see?, they told me. Some parts of your life cooperate.

Shoes are harder. You place one pair in the suitcase and immediately realize the space they’ve claimed.

I needed at least one pair of winter boots, ballet flats, high heels and my most comfortable trainers. I shoved meds and make up into them.

Shoes carry too many roads. They witness our hardships and stealing kisses in the rain, I thought. Which reminded me – no umbrellas.

For a moment I imagined all other pairs of shoes (21!) waking up tomorrow morning, confused that their owner had disappeared.

I almost laughed.

Almost.

Photo albums filled with moments of genuine happiness, with people who were no longer with me. One photo drew my attention.

It was an old one, edges slightly curled and yellowed. My grandparents standing in bright sunlight, squinting, mid-laughter. My grandmother got new shoes (such a treasure after the war!) and looked so happy. My uncle’s hand raised as if he was about to speak when the photo was taken.

They thought the worst times were behind them, I blinked the tears away.

Me as a baby, held in my mother’s arms on the balcony steps in our second home. She also looked happy.

The story of her memory opens like a door.

That afternoon. The warmth. Someone arguing she shouldn’t hold me so tight. Someone else insisting that I shouldn’t have been wrapped in so many layers since it was summer but she couldn’t resist the beauty of the new baby clothes.

Where did that day go?

My most cherished albums were slipped into the nooks and crannies of the lining, some into the trainers and boots.

And then it hit me how much stuff I had bought!

Books – troves of them. My most cherished possessions.

Stored on the shelves, in huge plastic containers, on the floor, in liquor cabinets, in an old sewing machine – everywhere!

Sorry, so sorry! I can't take you all! I had no idea how many of you I had accumulated over the years!

Books should always follow their owner, not because of their value but because of the people we were when we first opened them.

I have to ask my brother to bring them when he visits or to ship them off, I decided. I started arranging them into wooden craters to be left behind.

I arranged only those (like three hundred of them) I could not imagine my life without. Others stayed wherever they were initially.

The space looked immediately lonelier.

The paintings! Carefully chosen, reflecting my soul and innermost yearnings, mostly original national artists but still holding a huge sentimental value.

What am I going to do with you, guys?, I asked anxiously.

Take us with you! Do NOT leave us behind! No soldier left behind!

Nope, my brother would have to take them. Or better yet, my closest friend could store them in her spare room. She’s an art lover and she would care for them as if they were fragile babies.

FRAGILE! MY PORCELAIN! My grandmother’s tiny cups and saucers, my Japanese teacups together with the bamboo boxes, my champagne flutes from Russia, my ceramic mugs with saucers handmade by my friend from Sweden… That was the real treasure, parts of my heart.

The set of beautifully painted tiny coffee cups I had found online when my brother’s wife refused to give me my mother’s identical set. It had taken me two years to find a new one and in the meantime, she broke all of my mom’s. My brother called me cruel. I called them liars and thieves.

I got the Swedish ones when we were in Turkey, and a friend from Germany brought me the teacups from Japan.

See how much history there is behind every one of these?, I asked the invisible observer.

This is too cruel, I thought.

I know how much you hate those coffee mugs, so these are for you. I found them in Hagi, just for you!

I had never heard of Hagi but Googled it the moment he’d left. Just touching their surface with my fingertips made me feel special.

You survived so many heartbreaks and falls. You were my consolation when I was down and low, I held them and stroked their smooth surface. Nope, into the suitcase they went, protected in double bubble wrap.

The scarves, ponchos and shawls in the double drawer. I lifted the All Black from the neatly organized pile.

It still held the faintest trace of cologne.

The memory appeared fully formed: a streetlight, cold air, hands stuffed into coat pockets.

"You should keep it," he had said.

"Why?"

"Because someday you’ll forget this night, and this will remind you."

I dropped it into the pile but opted for the already packed fairy-like silk from Azerbaijan.

I returned to the suitcase.

Now I packed quieter things.

A notebook filled with half-finished stories.

You were going to write a novel, my diaries screamed at me.

I was not going to leave my notebooks and diaries. My secrets were too precious (and too inappropriate at times!) to be exposed to someone else’s eyes.

Suddenly the space felt crowded - not with the objects, but with the versions of myself.

The person who moved into this apartment full of hopes and dreams.

The person who stayed up late writing things that never quite worked.

The person who believed there was enough time to grow into someone who would make a real difference in the lives of all those invisible people.

Maybe I did, I thought.

Maybe I could still do it.

The suitcase refused to close.

Of course you refuse, I thought. I’m trying to compress an entire existence into thirty kilos.

I sat on the suitcase.

Bounced once.

Twice.

The zipper finally traveled where God intended it to be.

The suitcase stood upright now, innocent and compact, with a big bulge on one side. Just to be sure, I wrapped it with duct tape several times. Now it looked like a weird mummy.

But the apartment remained full of memories of the people who had lived there, their scents, voices, faint whispers...

The books on the floor.

The glasses and cutlery in the vintage cupboard.

The scarves in the drawers.

I picked up the suitcase and walked toward the door. Then I went back for my laptop bag with assorted electronics.

At the threshold I stopped.

Goodbye, my beautiful dusty rose carpet! Goodbye, my mandala throw!

A strange thought arrived.

Maybe the point was never to take my life with me.

I looked back one last time.

I felt like going back and unpacking but thought better of it. After all, it was still going to be my apartment. I stepped into the hallway.

As the door closed behind me, another thought popped up:

Maybe the life you can carry is the only life that was ever really yours. Or maybe the colors and textures left behind will reappear and help my kinesthetic self through thick and thin...

It remained to be seen...