He Was Packing His Bags

He was packing his bags all day long,
a quiet, gentle man--
packing and unpacking, in fact--
not exactly worried about
what to take and what to leave behind,
just sorting through,
one eye on the clock--
again, not worried, since this was,
thank God,
one ride he could not miss--
but wondering when it would be time
for him to go.

And he kept on telling me these stories as he packed,
about his life, about hurricanes, about the times he left
his luggage behind on one trip or another. I watched
him hold up each and every memory as if
inspecting it for stains or worthiness,
and then fold it, lay it
neatly
in his bag,
perhaps to be worn on his arrival, or--
more likely--
to be taken out again and laid aside,
one garment judged okay to leave
in favor of another.

Finally he stopped talking and he closed his eyes,
his stories all told and his bags all packed--
though I suspected he was still enumerating the things he had chosen
and the ones he had left
just to be sure.
I knew he was waiting for his ride,
so I waited with him;
and when it finally came, of course I missed the moment,
and he had left,
and I saw without surprise
that he had left his luggage behind.

In fond and respectful memory of Oz Stewart.


January 7, 2009