Take Even My Suitcase

grateful photo credit: anna yarrow

The twins at preschool, i sit to organize my writing.

I consider: My writing. My blog…- MY coffee! I am arranging my pillows to support my back…

Attending to MY anything, is stark and stays me, since it has not been so for a so-so long time.

I sit. I can focus and notice air passing through my nostrils, like I used to when I used to sit in meditation for portions of days on end, back then.

I stare into the playroom. It’s heart-warming to see your blankets strewn, still moist from your night skin…your toy trains awry on a patch of wood flooring, and porridge, dried, clings to your bowl over here, near me.


In the silence of the house, now, I hear echos of your contagious giggles, and in a flash I am distracted, pressed with wondering what you are up to in school. ‘Me’ is enfleshed with you…


Water wells my eyes, throat swells and I grip the kitchen Island to stand. The reality of what it took to get to here overtakes the otherwise mellow space and weighs like a colossal rock, my breath stops. Then, grandest love expands -scintillating- so I permeate through all of space. I hear:

I’d give it all up again.

There is still never, nothing, worth keeping, if it would keep me from you.

(And this mind-rant ramps up…)

Take it all. The bank accounts, I’d give them again. My career, I’d lose again. The family- I can retire, yes, the friends lost, too. I ‘d give it all up again, for you.

 What did I still have on the way? A suitcase, some boxes in a friends shed, a few bucks, a tattered sense of any identity, really.

Yes! (tears start pouring over this coffee)

– – “Take even my suitcase,” I state.

I ‘d given it, I’d walk with a paper bag of things. I’d walk with nothing. If I had to… If I had to do it all over again, to get to you. To get to my children. To hold my children, as most precious, against my breast.

Yes, take even my suitcase.