the rubber covers dropped off the wheels 
of my khaki-coloured bag multiple years ago,
and people turn to look when they hear me 
approach as i tow it clanking along

but while my bag is noisy and even a little 
bit tattered, a small tear here, a stain or two there, 
it conjures up recollections of far of places 
i’ve been, experiences lived, stories to tell—

i pulled it past ladies in colourful saris down 
grubby calcutta lanes as its wheels turned 
faithful--containing every single thing i brought 
to make a new home.

it has trundled past women, as black burkas
flowed in the desert city of dubai on the trip
where we rode the elevator up, up, up
the tallest building in the world.

it travelled to viti levu in the exotic fijian isles.
the place i lived for many years before the bag 
became mine, and it picked up sparkling
grains of sand and listened to tropical song.

and maybe it remembers the bahaman honeymoon
after this former widow wed, and observed daily
as we arranged sun-filled adventures there. 

so, while in this airport i see other bags glide smoothly 
along, hard-sided wonders that need no holding up 
at all, i know my bag’s every cranny and nook and 
just how much weight it will hold. 

so, go ahead and acquire your spiffy new luggage, 
but i will keep mine as long as vintage wheels turn and 
zippers attach, for this bag holds memories as well.

---ode to a very good suitcase

heather pound 2025

I’m not usually very sentimental about material things–but sometimes things take us right back to the memories that they’re connected to. Don’t they?