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I’ve begun the task, necessary, of packing my own suitcase for when you are the one leaving. Really just an old treasure trunk I’m placing gently in the corner of this room, me not going anywhere. I’ve made a short list of things to not forget, curating my collection, random collage, an archive on which no dust will settle. Me here, long-tethered but now pulling tight on my chain, straining for a full breath again, and dreaming that it could one day snap, free. I’ve been marking off the days for so long, on my sentence started, once young mother, with no hope for early release, even for good behavior. And now, some new days, seven only, at this roadside attraction, both enjoying ourselves fully in your brief stopover. But you are the one with legs, and wheels and wings. Away from here.

Tossing in the cassette tape, playlist of songs imprinted now with you, which flew in the air above our heads, enveloping, accompanying us.
Eucalyptus in the dry air, landing smooth, scented, on skin warm to the touch
Thick soft towel to dry off the cold, that first night, making your warmth return. And a deep-down, different shake within.
Golden mountain flower, medicinal I’m told, on the side of the path. breaking off a piece of me, for you, placed gently in your hand
A Sweet taste in my mouth, salted tears, apple cores and orange peels, bitter but bitten freely, now left on an empty plate, the impression of lips on half-filled glasses, on my open mouth.

All to be collected now, nothing left to do. A remembrance of things past, a single sugared madeleine on my tongue, saved for a coming day. Memories of the banquet I set out for you, offered up, some brief feast for us, weary travelers. And knowing that my little treasures, souvenirs of you, might sustain me for the days and nights ahead. Plan ahead and pack wisely, the sages whispered.

Missing you soon and already. Knowing that to hold tightly always destroys the thing it wishes for. One never knows. And still Collecting, before we’ve even started, what I hope to keep with me, small consolation of the company we kept. It was All I could expect and what I now hold softly in my hands, a precious rare gift. To me, pajaro sin alas. Of you, sweet vagabond.