The suitcase I pull behind me, along side me, and sometimes ahead in frustration, fails stoichiometry. It wobbles after the slightest bump and breathes canyons of air in to every crack in the ground. I want to leave it behind every time I feel it veer and reach for the ground like its kneecaps just gave out.
The trip is monotonous after the thousandth time. When the wheels roll without a hitch I can ignore the clamor it makes even though it makes us a beacon in the otherwise quiet final hours of the day, but even those smooth travels make it hard to feel content. What if there was a less worn, quieter suitcase to pull along, tires spaced well enough apart? It could be a nicer color, more subdued, without a logo sharing itself with any stranger that comes near. It’s only a little embarrassing, but I wonder why it couldn’t be different.
When I get it home I park it as soon after as I can and hardly notice the difference. I’m weak and frail, sloppily carved out of fatigue like a spoon dolling out mashed-potatoes. Over by the door the case stands-still, the handle still extended. I only now realize just how diminutive it is when considered among others like it and almost feel bad. It’s just fabric though, and it likely isn’t broken-hearted when there’s plenty inside to keep it filled and hold everything in place.
There’s another walk or dozen ahead of me with the suitcase behind me, failing at every crack and bump. It’ll roll along well until then but it’s nowhere near well enough.