- Vol. 10
- Chapter 09
Cranberry Suitcase
The cranberry suitcase was a gift intended as a parting gesture. One of patently admirable intentions and safety measures – both curious and questionable. Each compartment was stocked – petroleum jelly and blueberry scones, talcum powders and breath freshener. Each zipper locked. Somewhere, somewhere inside the faux-leather lot, my garments, mostly gingham and knits, were pressed and folded. Packed and planted. My belongings were a peculiar assortment of threads both sewn and yet-to-be owned. Up until the moment the train departed, the suitcase and I were one. Then, our paths parted. I was sent to the train’s spine, a seat in its lower back. The suitcase would join a mess of others’ property. A sea of navy, mud, and ash with my case, a cranberry on top. Compartmentalized and stocked. I clearly remember the moment the suitcase and I parted –
ways. the train on a one-way
track. All seats occupied,
of men in suits and mustaches
(not mouths) freshly washed.
I found my seat, claimed my space,
flicked specks of mud off my pink
raincoat (not a trace), then
crossed my chest (first) and
my nylon-covered legs (second).
Just. Like. That.
I was nearly off and newly
planted. All plans executed.
Cranberry Suitcase
Most pleasing. A
single square. A solitary
respite,
until I realized the cranberry
suitcase could not remain
on top.
The conductor fussed,
fumed, then reassumed
his routine along with
a blank countenance.
“It comes with me,” he said to no one,
expecting no response in return –
all seats occupied,
I counted stops and held my breath,
half expecting my luck to stand the test.
It did not.
The cranberry suitcase
did not arrive as planned,
Cranberry Suitcase
and I was, suddenly,
without a plan.
Truth be told,
my pink coat, red umbrella,
and reality, were soaked
and cloaked
in a false reality