Nothing But A Bag

"Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike."(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

It was quarter of 12 noontime. There was a knock at the door. Your knock. I recognized it cause you knock like the police. I was tempted to joke with you about that like normal, but I had to remind myself nothing about this would be normal.  I had lost track of time. Startled yet expecting you to come, I got off the sofa and walked to the door. It's time. Reminded me of the knock on the door when it was time to get into the limousine and go to the church. Not for a wedding but for my dad's funeral. There's that jumpiness when you hear the words, "it's time."  It's like a jolt to your system.

There was finality to this knock. This would be the last time I'd see your face. This would be the last time I'd hear your voice. I opened the door and there you were, bag in hand, looking at me yet not looking at me. I couldn't look into your eyes. There was no entry. I was no longer welcomed. All I could do was take the bag you were holding. My things. My things all neatly placed with the utmost care in a bag.

It amazes me that it all comes down to a bag. A lifeless bag. What of all that we shared.  What of the laughter. What of the dancing. What of the long talks. What of the shared meals. What of our feet touching and legs intertwined.  What of our hopes, dreams for the future. What of the first time you sang to me. What of our first picnic. Our first walk in the park, sitting on the swings like little kids grinning at each other. Our first kiss. Our first of so many firsts that are ever so present in my heart. A bag cannot hold it all, yet this is all you have for me.

Like lifeless forms we stand here facing each other, going through the motions.  I take a look in the bag.  At the bottom, clothing folded neatly. In the middle, my key in a sealed envelope. Good luck written on it. On top of that, my toiletries gently placed in their own separate bag. You were so careful with my things. That's so like you. You were so careful to make sure you cooked enough so I had something to take with me to lunch the next day.  You were careful to make sure I got in the car okay and got home safely.  You were careful to make sure I didn't have to feel alone another day.  I never had to wonder where you were - until now. 

How are you feeling?  Are you hurting as much as I am? Do you want to touch me, hold me, kiss me one last time?  Can I touch you? 

Your manner was quiet as you gave this, my things, back to me. Your manner was so heavy.  You looked so tired. There was no joy in your face.  You didn't come pimping in, like usual, like you owned the place.  Talking junk.  I felt so fidgety as I searched underneath my sink for something to put your things in. Why didn't I already have it prepared? I knew you were coming. Maybe unconsciously I wanted to prolong our final moment.  Much like I did when I had them to open the casket one last time before they lowered my father into the ground, I needed to look at you, be around you just a little while longer. You stood there silently, patiently, barely moving. I thanked you. Without a word, you exited. Without a sigh. Without a look. You left me and the chill of that moment hit my face. I closed the door. Gosh, the sound of the lock turning sounded so loud. So final. I carried my neat bag and sat it on the floor near the kitchen. I fell to the floor. It hurts so bad.  My sobs fill the house and swurl around my head.  I'm heart broken.

It is over.  You are gone.  I am alone.