65, 42, 27

65, 42, 27

 

I unzip my suitcase, take a tape measure and learn the dimensions: 65, 42, 27. The boundaries of a portable life. Four sides with a lid. A lid I can sit on to squash what’s beneath until it fits, but a lid nonetheless. That final blockade.

I look at the contents of my cupboards, the stashings in my drawers and boxes. I start with my clothes. I won’t need so many jumpers and thick socks, the Texas climate is more sympathetic than the English, but consider when I come home to visit? Perhaps they can stay here, in a special container just for me. Can a place remain home if you’ll only ever visit? There are items I have not worn for years, but I still feel a clinging to them, a sadness that we have to part. Giving them to charity makes me feel better. I fill a bag.

I asses the knick knacks that hang from my walls, that cover every surface, that lay forgotten in boxes. Gifts from friends, family, myself, handmade. I begin to sort through and find that each one holds a memory, a face that I cannot give away. I make space for them in my 65, 42, 27.

Slowly, my room begins to look unfamiliar, empty and larger than life. I have stripped me away from the walls and out of the cupboards. I now reside in 65, 42, 27. But I surprise myself. I feel light, I feel liberated. I have often commented how freeing it would be if my possessions could fit into a suitcase. Now that they do, I know it to be true.

I sit on the lid and pull the zip round. I padlock my life and pocket the key. I haul it downstairs and place it by the door that will soon be opened. I turn my attention to the people who, no matter how much I squash and squeeze, will never fit into 65, 42, 27. I hold each of them close and thank God that love isn’t something to be packed into a suitcase. I sigh in relief that my memories are automatically zipped and locked in my mind; I would hate to leave one behind. I pick up my 65, 42, 27 with its limiting lid, turn from the people I love and know that my heart has dimensions for all.