there was a suitcase in the trunk.
sticking out of it were aching moments of the past.
an old black t-shirt wedged between the dull chrome lock.

the suitcase disappeared down the street. out of vision.
ending years of love with the practicality of stuff in boxes.
i looked into the stuff and found a strange melange of where i had been.
a video still wrapped in its cellophane.
a sweater that had purple flowers knitted into it.
a favourite pen with my faded name along its edge.
a half-used lighter.
a bottle of shampoo.
for that moment, it was all that i had.
all that i had to claim in the mess of the day.

i cried for the stuff that laid before me.
not for the loss of person, of heart, of companionship.
but for a loss of sense reflected
in the boxes that sat at my feet.

some blues are blues of a fine art.
these were that sort.
the kind that some earthy brunette with a hillbilly guitar
turns into a song.
one of those songs that resonate in all of us.

i began to sort through the boxes.
attempting to pile the items with like items.
but they all belonged together.
as a symbol of today – and what it means to feel like me.

© Nettie Bozanich

[previously published in “All Things Girl.”]

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