The
Suitcase How could I be so stupid? What signs had I missed? Why would someone treat me this way?
L
Kim Salyer
ast year, I fell in love with a man I had known for two years, a dear friend who lived and worked in San Francisco. We had talked and written and become so close during those two years, that being together felt more like the next step than a risky venture. We met in person, were mad for each other from moment one, and after a few months we decided I would move to San Francisco. We looked for a place to live, made plans for a life together and were both giddy at the thought of it all. And then, in the most cruel way imaginable, I found out he had been living with another woman the entire time we made all these plans, the entire time we had written to each other as friends, the entire time we were seeing each other. After I found out, he abruptly cut off all communication with me and never showed a flicker of remorse or sorrow. I fell apart in ways I am embarrassed to think of now, completely losing my footing and my confidence. A great deal of my sorrow was just over the fact that one person could do such a thing to another. Especially to someone who had shown them only kindness and love. And why? Why had he drawn me into his life, made these plans while living with someone? How could I be so stupid? What signs had I missed? Why would someone treat me this way? I needed answers and never got them. I wanted to understand how this could happen, but there was no explanation. When I came home from that trip—my last trip to see him—I put my suitcase in my extra bedroom and ignored it. I felt that if I opened it and saw the things I had packed for what I thought would be a wonderful, special trip, the pain would be too much to bear. And day after day, I let the suitcase sit there, haunting me. I replaced all the toiletries, my curling iron, my electric toothbrush, just so I wouldn’t have to open it. Weeks went by and then months, until I was in another season and didn’t miss or need anything inside it. And then, a few weeks ago, I moved to a new apartment. As I carried random boxes, lamps and other items out of the spare bedroom, the suitcase stood in the corner. I realized it had been almost a year since I left it in that same spot, in that same position. My heart hurt remembering how it felt coming home that night. I looked at this bag, and thought of just adding it to the trash pile outside. But I remembered a few things inside it that I had loved. The French shoes I had bought
in San Francisco that made me feel as though I was walking on cobblestones instead of concrete. The little black and white dress that made me feel beautiful, even sexy. The journal that I had kept for years before meeting him. I took the handle in my hand and loaded the suitcase in the back of my car. A few nights later, I finally screwed up my courage and opened it. The first thing that greeted me was the scent of the perfume I had worn, that I loved, but hadn’t used since then. I was determined not to cry, but it happened before I could think. I wept. For a moment, I thought again of just closing the suitcase and trashing everything. But I made myself keep going. I found the French shoes, the dress, my favorite bathing suit, my journal, jewelry I adore that I had almost forgotten about, clothing I feel my best in and some short stories I had written. I sat there with these things all around me, still in tears. And slowly, I began to introduce the things from the suitcase back into my life. I wore the shoes to work, brought the perfume out of hibernation and washed all the clothes and returned them to my closet. My necklaces, bracelets and rings went back into my mirrored jewelry box and the writing into my desk with my other work. I performed the cleaning ritual I used to do after my business trips, vacuuming the whole suitcase, spritzing some Febreeze and returning it to my closet. I was fine with the contents out, but the suitcase itself bothered me. I couldn’t look at it without thinking of the pain of that last trip, the pain that kept me from opening it for a year. I tossed the suitcase in the back of my car, figuring I would happen upon a dumpster while I was out. One day, while driving around for work, I saw two women behind a table with containers and stacks of odd items surrounding them. A sign read “Donations” and listed the name of a women’s shelter. I returned to my car and pulled out the suitcase and quietly added it to the stacks of donations. As I walked away, I thought of some woman starting her life over, exiting from pain, heading somewhere new and safe. I thought of her packing things in this suitcase, beginning anew and associating the suitcase with happiness. At least that’s what I hoped, and it seemed to clear my head and my heart. Keeping that suitcase in my house, however hidden, was almost like he was still around. Breaking it open, taking the parts that were the best of myself out of it and then doing something positive with it freed me. Maybe it sounds dramatic and maybe no one else can understand, but it makes perfect sense to me. It’s been almost a year since I could say that about anything.
In addition to working for skirt! Charlotte, Kim Salyer is a writer, wanna-be photographer and blogger at kdsthinkingoutloud.blogspot.com.