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 insert