There is something strange about packing a suitcase, about putting in this and that, extra pairs of things just in case. Weighing your bags to make sure you are not transgressing the airline’s weight limits. The small packages and gifts carefully wrapped in tissue paper, putting in little pieces of yourself and hoping they don’t get lost along the way.

And there is the something desperate about leaving, putting one foot in front of the other, walking away from someone you love, realizing that your life may very well be made up of sole fragments of departure, of articles of clothing, slippers, hair clips. Fragments of memory I should say, that loved ones can become wavering shadows, short glimpses of people.

I ask a question, isn’t it hard? Having the draining knowledge that you can leave pieces of your heart in places, give them out generously, forget that they exist until what you have left are disparate remnants of your self, scattered crumbs of being.