Lately, I have been traveling with more baggage than I am used to. I am the frazzled, frowning, tight-lipped woman at the airport with jogging pants on—six kids, eight pieces of rolling luggage, three carry-ons—refusing service from an attendant. I am the one with downcast eyes, strained vocal chords, secrets. No more sweet dreams. No lullabies to rock me to sleep…
I see her there, among the shadows of my unconscious mind. She is weeping, fearful. She cuddles comfortably with catastrophe. He haunts me too. Angrily, menacingly, he tiptoes past my twitching eyes. He draws teardrops from the well of disaster that drowns my delusions. He is worthless. She is better than she believes.
I hear the creaking of a clock, its hands racing too quickly to catch up with my conclusions. Kill him. Lock him up and throw away the key. Save her. Save her. Save her.
…Time to exhale. Pay the man to carry my bags to the car. Unpack the luggage I never needed to bring. Rearrange that which I did: Strength. Love. Peace. Silent Salvation.
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