The red suitcase trundles past again. A green ribbon informs me that it isn’t mine.
A few bags are left wobbling on the circulating belt. The diminishing crowd is also beginning to wobble—with anxiety.
My escape had been a flash reaction. Always fermenting, dreamily preparing but, until yesterday, just going round and round in my mind. Renewed aggression had forced me into action.
My red suitcase quickly stuffed with fragments of hope, then honest words scribbled and pushed under the sugar bowl. Now, away from the baggage of home, I grab someone else’s. A wheel is missing. That doesn’t matter.