Leaving You Behind

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You pack with your head.  You pack a few changes of clothes; nothing special, because when winter comes, the insurance will have kicked in.  The mundane stuff: underwear, easy sweaters, some toiletries. There is no saying where you’ll end up.  You pack a book to read, your passport and important documents.  Packing with your head is easy.

You pack with your heart.  Did you do those games when you were young?  ‘Imagine escaping from a burning building- what would you take with you?’  Good practice: this time it’s for real; you are running from a monster, devouring everything in its wake.  So you pack your wedding album, your photo album from when you were a little girl, your memory stick with photos and films from your own family life.  Sometimes technology has its advantages.  You pack your jewellery; the moonstone he gave you when your daughter was born, her hair in a little locket, your mother’s bracelets.  You pack the drawing your daughter made for her last Christmas and the fridge magnet she made out of salt dough. 

The soldiers are knocking on your door; it is time to go.  The heat is intense and you can hear it in the distance.  It’s coming closer.  A glance. The imprint of her little foot; the embroidery made by your mother when your daughter was christened.  Your dad’s old pipe.

They want to leave.

In two hours, the wooden cross you put on her grave will be gone.  You’ve made a cairn of stones, so that one day you can come back to it and will be able to find her.  All you can do now is go, and wish her goodbye.

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