The Bag

The suitcase is old—

the kind that's been

under the bed

for longer

than you want to count,

the kind that's

faded,

that's collected dust,

that's just

sitting there

waiting

for the day

you need

to travel

again.

You pulled it out

to pack

for the trip next month,

and inside,

in the side pocket,

there was a receipt.

Hotel name.

Dates.

A room number.

A handwriting

on the back

that's yours,

but older,

from a version

of you

that went somewhere

alone,

that spent

three nights

somewhere,

that made a decision

to go

without

telling anyone.

The trip

you never talk about.

The one

that exists

in this receipt,

in this evidence,

in this small

paper

proof

that you

had a life

you kept

secret.

You stare at it.

You remember.

It wasn't bad.

It wasn't good.

It was just

a thing

you did

because you needed

to do something,

because you needed

to be

alone

somewhere

that wasn't

here,

because you needed

to know

that you could

leave

if you wanted to.

The receipt

is creased,

is yellowed,

is fragile

in your hands.

The handwriting

is yours

but not.

The dates

mean something

you've been

working

to forget.

And now

the suitcase

is out,

is ready,

is waiting

for you

to pack

for the next trip,

the next escape,

the next time

you'll go

somewhere

and come back

different,

or not,

or just

exactly

the same,

and nobody

needs to know

about it.