Handle With Care

Can I get a moving walkway for all this emotional baggage?

I'm tired of carrying it around. Or better yet, make like a real airport and lose it. Drop it in the middle of Lake Michigan or the Bermuda Triangle. Leave its contents to be pulled and plucked at by the curious lips of strange ocean fish.

If that doesn't work, let's strap it haphazardly to the roof of some suburban mini-van and see how far we can get. Somewhere along the curves and bends of some lonely interstate highway I'll smile as it topples over the side, following the passing of an eighteen wheeler.

I'm free.

They'll flutter out of the open suitcase as it lies agape by the side of the road, like a giant face caught in a yawn. Moments, like shredded newspaper ads, litter the azure sky, the road, the windshields of cars. Travelers switch their wipers to "On", unaware of what they are brushing away.

As we speed further down the road, the wrinkles of my mind ease and slacken, spreading my memory out flat. I hold in a sigh. I let out a grin.

Miles behind, caught in between the blades of a beat-up Toyota is the memory of us.

And with a casual sweep, it's gone.