Saturday Night, My Christmas Eve

Two more days before I’m on a plane away from the life I have built.

Two more days before I leave behind all the worries, the fears, the overbearing anxiety that is the puppeteer of my life.

I guess you could call me lucky, I get to escape from this, cut off the strings and turn into a real girl.

Yet I look around at the clothes I own laid out on the bed, ready to be put in their temporary new home for the next ten days:

My faded yellow shirt that I wore when my cousin who I loved more than myself decided I was no longer of use to her.

My hole-in-the-crotch jeans achingly reminding me how my -then- boyfriend unzipped them to study the depths of my body that was never previously discovered before him.

My long-sleeve black pajama shirt that kept my skin together while my heart was tearing apart.

My blue thick sweatpants that remind me of my stressful weight loss as they sag around my melting hips, performing one of the greatest disappearing acts.

My pair of running shoes that kept my feet stomping on the pavement on tiresome nights when my body and mind were ready to give up.

The threads of my clothes are the strings that control my every move.

They carry with them the life I wish to get away from.

I pack the burdens of my past and the fears of my future in the luggage.

But I can’t lift the bag off the floor.

Every article of clothing I relieve from it exceeds the 50 pound weight limit allowed on the plane.

Every piece holds the weight of the memory it represents.

How did I put them in the bag? How did I carry each one on this fragile body of mine until now?

Wash them. I hear a voice within say subtly yet strong.

I already did, I respond.

Wash them again. The voice is confident.

I take the clothes to the washer. I lift every piece of clothing with difficulty and with all the strength I can summon, tossing them into the machine.

When they finish drying, I open the lid. Suddenly, every article of clothing feels light.

Their weight has dropped to a bearable normal, dropping yet still.

The memories, the stories, though embroidered into the stitching, have shrunk to size and made room for more.

The clothes are ready for a new imprint, a new memory to slowly make its way through the threading.

Just like life, the stories they hold are still unfinished. There’s room for more.

So as I repack them, I fit them in the bag with ease.

I am my own puppeteer. I am ready.

And yet although my bag is still overweight, the things it carries suddenly feel no heavier than the lightest of feathers.