The Weight of Strength

My memories,

can be all summed up,

in a suitcase.

Seasonal, fleeting.

Some belongings are even lost along the way.

But it can be forged.

It hurts, sometimes,

to move on

when the past still lingers in the heart—

yet in that ache

we slowly carve out

our own voice,

our own strength and clarity.

I look into my suitcase,

the one that has been with me for years.

Inside, there are pieces—

embroidery, colours, threads:

of animals, butterflies, peonies,

and some I could not name.

Still delicate and strong,

carrying the essence,

dedication, and the air of those

that created them.

As someone who has lost my connection

to the land,

my belongings have become

my collection of selves—

fractured, yes,

but still warm,

as though it was only yesterday.

As I travelled between the mountains,

across the rivers,

from home to home,

species to species.

They form the small traces of existence

that make up

my own.

My beloved family,

alive and deceased;

those related by blood,

and strangers—

human and non-human.

Some I’ve never met.

Some live in other parts of the world.

Trees. Rocks. Resin.

Leaves, flowers,

a stuffed bear

with lacquer eyes.

What am I

with all of this?

What can I do,

except carry it,

and keep walking?

Indeed—what am I?

I am the map,

and the territory,

of my losses,

my bravery,

my adventures.