Still Waiting

The packing list was in pencil—

my handwriting from three years ago,

when I still believed leaving was possible,

when I thought the suitcase meant something.

The suitcase is navy blue.

One wheel is stuck. I tried to move it

when I found it, and the wheel

just—wouldn't.

Like even the luggage was tired of waiting.

My sister asked to borrow it.

I went to the closet to get it

and sat on the floor for twenty minutes,

maybe longer. I couldn't bring myself

to pull it out.

The pencil marks on the inside are faded—

clothes I was going to bring,

a version of me that lived somewhere else,

the person I was supposed to become

if only I could figure out

how to make a suitcase mean something.

I'm still here.

The suitcase is still here.

Its wheel is still stuck.

I don't know what's worse—

that I didn't leave,

or that I keep finding reasons

to check on it, to see

if maybe this time

it decided to go without me.