His Suitcase

His suitcase is full. Full of
troubles and sadness and
dreams that never came true,
emotions he buried
deep down at the bottom.
They look
organized at the top, neatly folded into squares,
but everything below it is jumbled,
out of control, packed tightly where no one can see.

His suitcase is heavy. He lugs it through
the airport of life, unable to let go as it fills up with
more and more. And it's too much to carry, but there's
nowhere to sit down and
take a break, and the zipper is stuck:
no way to let those feelings
erupt out into the world.

His suitcase is tattered from too much use, too much
stuffing it with the things he's hiding. He watches
little kids running
across the building, rolling tiny suitcases with
sparkles and light-up wheels behind them with glee.
So light. So easy.
He aches with the load, too much, too much,
wishing he could go back in time,
be a toddler again,
carefree, with
barely anything to carry.

His suitcase is inconspicuous,
nobody noticing, all focused on
the colorful, shiny ones with four separate wheels
and fancy tags advertising their owners:
nothing to hide from.

Yet someone sees, catches a glimpse of that sad-looking suitcase,
walks over and, with a smile,
kneels down, fiddles with the zipper, reaches deep for
the heaviest problems, the bulkiest emotions,
takes them in out from his suitcase
and tucks them in her own.

TreePupWriter

VT

16 years old

More by TreePupWriter

  • Hold Music


    Her hands clutch the cell phone and
    fiddle with the corners of the case.
    Feet fidgeting under the desk, stuffed into socks and shiny flats.

    She did not ask her phone to bring her an orchestra,
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    I was fearless. Untouchable. Knew who I was. What I wanted.
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    There wasn’t much I needed to wish for, but the act of it was fun.