The Suitcase

I pondered

as I always did

on the 'used to' people

who lived here once.

*

The dusty, dirt-laden suitcase belonged to a man.

I wondered what his name was

as I opened the forgotten luggage,

trashed and torn and left on the side of the road,

like the unwanted doll from my childhood

gazing lovingly at the attic wall.

*

It waited for me because I was the one to scoop it up

that early morning

in the middle of being late and getting there.

*

The torn fabric told tales of harder times

and wealthy families ripped from the usual

rhythms of life by heartbreak

and disaster

wondering, by God, just painfully wondering

when they will breathe easily again.

*

The forgotten was my specialty

and I pulled the case onto the stoop

too eager to bring it to a safe place

too scared to be judged for my yearning

for this old, unwanted thing.

*

And I found treasures inside.

Photographs of strangers in black and white

staring sternly into the lens of new technology.

Names forgotten like the dumped case

and never to be spoken again.

*

My dreams of a tale existing only

In the depths of my imagination

dashed,

as I pulled

item after item

of 'unnecessary now' things

onto my lap.

Telescope and monocle

evening hat and fountain pen

*

And finally,

the diamond in the rough,

a journal of a broken man

telling tales of hardship dated 1914.

Death and destruction

other horrors undreamed.

*

So he packed what he needed

grabbed his children four, six, and ten

and set off to safe places

wishing to be forgotten.

*

The dark stains on the leather

the picture stitching together more clear

They did not make it away

They died right here.