The Luggage

She yanked the color-sorted, ascending size order garments off their hangers and dropped them into the luggage sprawled on the floor, straddling the divide between bedroom and hallway. She wasn't in a hurry by any means. It was late afternoon and her flight leaves tomorrow early afternoon. As if possessed, moving about without any conscious thought to her body, she marched across her room, grabbing from left to right: makeup products, shoes still in boxes, cables knotted together. When the pile in the luggage reached her knees, she reached behind it for the carry-on pair, lifted it on top of the bed, and began filling that. Only when confused why there was nothing left to grab around the room did she seem to come back into herself. Blinking three times, she looked at me then looked at me, and sighed.

I type this as she orders the piles in their proper luggage. I empathize with the frenzy. I sympathize with the ghostly look on her face, communicating the dissatisfaction of being able to leave only to have to come back. Dissatisfaction. That's not the right word. Hurt. No, that's not right either. Resignation. I should stop. I need to help.