Baggage

This room is bare now. The stripped bedding lays at the foot of the bed, the curtains sit drawn back into their ties, and the thick pine wardrobe looms ominously as though it will topple at any moment.

My luggage is packed and out in the hallway, and the tied-up bin bag waits to be deposited in the refuse bin at the end of the gravel drive.

I sigh, and reach my hand down to the baggage at my feet.

“What are you doing with that?” you say, accusation in your voice.

I feel my throat seize up against the words that want to retaliate something snappy. I swallow, and settle for, “You know.”

My eyes are averted but I can feel you frown.

“I do know. That wasn’t my question. My question was, what are you doing with that?”

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