The Suitcase
The suitcase sat on the edge of the bed.
Closed.
It was ordinary; not large, nor small.
She slowly unclasped the case.
Just a few things, really.
He was spare in needs—
weathered shoes, soft slippers.
He wore autumn.
Two plaid shirts, one worn cardigan sweater
russet, crimson, amber hues.
She held the sweater close
with scents of cedar, woodsmoke
and the wind before snow.
She folded the sweater with care.
And he stayed until he couldn’t.
Her hands trembled holding his
pen
ink
notebook.
Under a tattered wool scarf
the flute rested.
He carved only six holes
played at midnight.
Everything was packed.
Their gold bands, too.
She paused
took her band
placed it on her finger
kissed his
tucking it into a shirt pocket.
She stared at the band on her finger.
Removing it
she placed it in the pocket next to his.
She closed the suitcase.
Each click, finality.
With weary eyes
she walked down the hallway
nodding to others.
No one responded.
No one noticed pain.
One leaf fell.
Walking a lone road
she lingered in autumn,
winter already in the wind.
