12 months

Jen left today. I watched her cycle away from 1986, pulling her trailer. Watched her outline softened, turned to a dot, and finally disappeared on the bend. How many more times do belongings have to be put in a bag, carry it across whatever ocean, drag it from one continent to another. Reminding ourselves that everything in this bag is who we are. Everything in this bag is me. This is me. This is me. Everything in this bag is me. Repeating it till all the words are blunted, over and over to smoothen the corners, to cut a groove in my mind—I will be okay—this is me. This is me. This bag is me. Everything in this bag is me, the weight of my experience, are rolled and folded in this bag. Everything that I need I have in this bag. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me. This is not me.