The Suitcase

It was a privilege to ponder

the people who lived here once.

The dust-laden suitcase belonged to a man.

I wondered at his name

as I opened the forgotten luggage,

trashed and tossed 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 scooped it up

that early morning

in the middle of being late and getting there.

The torn fabric told tales of harder times,

well-to-do families ripped from the usual

rhythms of life by heartbreak

and disaster

wondering, 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.

I found treasures inside.

Photographs of strangers in black and white

staring sternly back at me.

Their names never to be spoken again.

*

I pulled item after item onto my lap.

Cufflinks and monocle

evening hat and fountain pen.

And finally,

a diamond in the rough,

the journal of a broken man

telling tales of hardship dated 1914.

Death and destruction, other horrors undreamed.

He packed what he needed

grabbed his children four, six, and ten

and set off to a safe place

wishing to be forgotten.

*

I ran a thumb over

the dark stains on the leather, knowing

they did not make it away.