TCE Poetry: You Can’t Take Everything With You

my father stands over twelve carry on bags, assigns responsibilities. he is to carry four at the same time, I am to carry a backpack and the heaviest bag, a dark green duffle bag, a Fake Puma, no wheels. he asks that I do not set it down until we are on the plane. 

on the ramp leading up, half-way through, I feel my fingers slowly let go. numb. I scan quickly,  decide there is time to set it down for just a second, shake my fingers out, let them feel blood rushing again. in the eternity of a second, the pilot and two hosts turn the corner. he points at my feet. how heavy is that bag? this is not a boat. you cannot take everything with you. he gestures to staff, the bag disappears down the hall. the hostess asks, what is your address in Canada? my fingers are numb.