Luggage

In this travel, a hint of light
wisteria crawling to the second floor.
Our daughter’s aqua baby book
tied and retied with mended bands.  Then
in a broad crimped pocket nearly hidden,

the looking back. Her unborn siblings.

And laid out on top, first memory of the man,
her father, who walked into the bookstore
with blue eyes and his wounded silence
questioning everything. I wanted him. To forgive
all the other men, their letters folded between
the pages. Exercises in cursive pen and epistle

pencils of regret. Must not forget my
black suede wedding shoes and burgundy
headband of antique pearls.

For the larger valise, all of my brothers
and sisters, even the stubborn ones. Pressing down
to fit young whimsy speed of driving cross country
to dry places where we once lived, in anticipation
of desert rain.  I will pack my mother and my father,
even as they carry their own remorse, but I will
loose them from these sorrows before inserting them.
Hoarded friendships like heirloom seed packets and one
single tarnished spoon from my grandmother’s
collection, a tiny diorama of Niagara Falls or
Dutch windmill with tiny revolving wings.

In this final carry-on, whisper as answer
to my grown girl’s questions. Mourning
dove song for both our childhoods. Cinematic
croon, and a splash of China Musk to guide her,
forever maternal ghost and passport.