My Life Is Not Garbage

I have a suitcase.

It is a trash bag.

It cradles my life in the stretch of its plastic.

Since it does not look like much, it insinuates to others that I have nothing of importance.

However, everything in this disposable bag means something—at least to me.

I tote this bag around from house to house. I have never once fully emptied the bag before moving to a different house.

I might take one item out, only to place it back within a week. I am afraid to remove all the items at once; afraid for my new family to see the minor things that are so major to me.

A spool of blue thread. A letter. One set of clothes.

Their pity burns a hole through me. Nonetheless, pity is not enough reason to keep me around.

A childless couple, suddenly blessed with a biological child.

An inspired single father, realizing parental realities.

A family mourning their rainbow baby, noticing I cannot fill their void.

There is no space for me. There has never been a space for me. The only space I truly own is this black garbage bag that shrouds me in comfortable darkness.

I unravel the blue thread in my hands, weaving it between my fingers. My imagination goes where it should not: my mother.

Her hands would shake as she stitched up the worn spots on my jeans. She would transform ugly holes into beautifully patterned blue flowers. Her love was just as precious.

I have had many mothers.

They tell me to call them “Mom”.

It feels wrong.

I feel gross.

I feel like a traitor.

Maybe it would be different if I had not felt my mother’s love. Perhaps it would be better if she hated me; then at least I could move on.

***

My third mother thought it silly of me to cherish this string.

“At least let me put it to use! Why do you even need this?”

She did not understand.

No one is allowed to use it.

The way it is now is exactly how my mother left it. It is as if the memory is frozen in time, attached to the end of this blue thread.

To unravel this spool is to unravel my life.

My memories would come undone—I’ll lose them forever—that’s why I need this thread.

I need to remember her.

The only person who would truly understand is my mother; however, this woman was not my mother. Therefore, she returned me in exchange for a child she could understand.

Do you see why I am protective of these items? What if all they see is some cheap thread?

What if they see what this thread truly means to me? Will they be jealous? Will they understand?

Do I even want them to understand?

The walls of this building, which have known me the longest, seem to laugh at me. They’ve seen me leave this facility hopeful for a family, and they’ve seen me return defeated.

A home with me in it is not a home at all.

I curl up on the usual spot on the bed, a spot I wish never to see again. My trash bag slumps in the corner.

I will not remove any of my items tonight, not when I might pack them back up tomorrow.

***

My second item is the letter.

The suitcase garbage bag does not protect the flimsy paper much, but it is better than nothing.

Although the envelope is surprisingly crisp, the letter itself is soft. Perhaps I have worn its edges after reading it one too many times.

The top of the letter reads:

“For when times are tough.”

My uncle’s chicken scratch writing is barely legible. Regardless, I feel his presence in the words I can decipher.

He tells me how strong I am, how sweet I can be, how patient I have been.

He promises to get me out of here.

One day, he says, when he has his own life pieced together, he will find me.

For now, I must continue to be the strong girl I am.

This letter is why my arms do not feel tired lugging my trash bag. My life, and the desire to keep it, are tucked into this lemon-scented suitcase.

My uncle will meet me, and he will be my family.

***

I was right not to unpack my things.

It is not long before I am called to the office, before another set of unfamiliar eyes gaze upon me.

They are so ecstatic. They are lively. They are desperate for a child to fix their lives.

I will not unpack my bag at this new home either.

The car ride is long and bumpy, but I do not mind since the view is peaceful. Gusts of wind make the grass look like rolling ocean waves; birds and butterflies flutter in the air.

I am looking forward to this view again when they inevitably return or exchange me.

***

Mother number eight wants the family to have a special outing.

We are to attend church and look like the perfect family held together by nothing but genuine love for one another.

Do you remember my third item?

One set of clothes.

This is, of course, other than the ones I wear on my back. This set of clothes is for special occasions. Church seems to be a special occasion.

I have never been to church.

But after experiencing it, I think I might want to go back.

They tell us stories. They sing. They wish good things for others.

I hope they can share some of those good things with me one day.

My new father insists upon ice cream after church and before lunch—he is a strange adult. Nonetheless, his wife entertains it and devotes it as a celebration for my joining the family.

Chocolate Strawberry, Coconut Pineapple, Cherry Sorbet, Raspberry Swirl…

“What would you like, sweetheart? You can have any flavor that Mom allows,” the worker says with a wink.

I tell the woman, “Vanilla is fine.”

She processes for longer than necessary before scooping two mounds into a cone. Its flavor is delicate, but that is what I love about it. It is easy to overlook, but it will always be an original flavor.

I love that vanilla is a constant.

I hope it never leaves.

I hope it never changes the way that people do.

***

Our “happy” family outing does not last long, as a droplet of melted ice cream dribbles from my cone.

“June, are you okay? Why are you shaking?”

I will not cry. I refuse to cry.

It’s just a dress. It’s just a dress that Dad bought me. It’s just a dress that he told me to take care of. It’s just a special dress.

Larger drops start to fall, joining what was a singular ice cream stain. These droplets are salty, and they burn. I don’t like them. I despise them.

I remember how Dad slowly saved up the money to get me this dress. He could have bought something different—something for himself.

Instead, he wasted his money on me, a messy little girl, not to be trusted with a simple ice cream.

My pseudo mother glances hesitantly at my pseudo father before offering to have the dress dry-cleaned.

I am so happy they did not offer to replace the dress entirely.

***

I know I shouldn’t have, but I looked through her suitcase—the garbage bag.

She only has three things in there.

I want to know why she chose these three specifically, or if she even had a choice in the matter.

Maybe these three things are all she has left.

Regardless, these are the items that bring her the most comfort. I want her to be comfortable here.

I want her to be family.

That doesn’t mean I can fill those same shoes as her mom. I might never be able to.

She might never be like my biological daughter is to me. But that doesn’t matter.

Each member of my family is special to me in their own way. June is special to me. I want to be special to her.

I want us to care for each other and never let go, because that’s what family really is.

I will be there for the ups and downs.

I’m not going anywhere.

***

The woman has not asked me to call her “Mom” yet.

“My name is Susan, but you can call me anything you want—whatever feels natural for you,”

She pauses.

“Oh, also! I have a little surprise for you.”

She leaves the room only to return moments later with a roller bag. My eyes shift from the bag to her.

“You want me to leave?” I whisper.

“Oh no! No, no, no. Not at all, dear!”

She asks me to unzip the bag.

Inside, my pristine dress lies flat, smelling of fresh laundry and still bearing the dry-cleaning tag.

“The suitcase isn’t for you to leave. You’re going to need a bigger bag to follow us wherever we go,” she smiles.

“And I hope you find even more meaningful things along the way to add to the three you already have,”

She gestures to my black garbage bag.

Suddenly, my life is full, and I now have a big enough suitcase to fit it all.

Thread. Letter. Clothes. This family.