The corner of the suitcase is soft now

The corner of the suitcase is soft now,

the fabric worn where it's been folded,

refolded, creased into itself

a thousand times. I can feel it

through the cloth when I pack—

the place where my hands have worked

the material thin.

Same socks go in first.

Gray. The kind that don't show.

I've been taking these socks everywhere

for five years. I don't remember

choosing them. They just go

in the suitcase, the same corner,

and I fold them the same way,

and the fabric remembers.

The books next. Two books.

Not because I'll read them.

Because the space needs weight.

Because a suitcase that's too light

feels like it might blow away

or like you didn't pack enough

of yourself to matter.

Toiletries. Underwear. The same

toothbrush, the same everything.

My hands know the order.

I don't think anymore.

I just move through it,

and the suitcase takes what it's given,

and the corner softens a little more

every time.