The new suitcase stands in the middle of the living room. I take in its emptiness, like my life, waiting to be filled. Not just with clothes, but with adventure. With the unknown.
It challenges me to the next step in the journey.
I have both trepidation and excitement. As my bereavement counselor wisely tells me: It is possible to hold two emotions at the same time. I believe Mr. Rogers said the same although I can’t find it anywhere on the Internet.
*******
I was two years old when I first decided that “going” was good. Perhaps that urge was part of my DNA or my personality. Or, perhaps, even as a child, I wanted to escape the impoverished South Texas town where I lived, its rutted roads, the unkempt houses, the acrid stench of the nearby tomato canning factory.
I only knew I wanted to go. I would hear dad’s car pull up and I waited for him, my chubby toddler hands holding high my symbol of freedom — my black patent leather Mary Janes. They would take me anywhere.
As he walked through the front door from work, I’d greet him, waving my shoes in the air, questioning him with a hopeful plea: Go? Go? Go?
I did go in later years, but not to as many spots on the globe as I’d like. Mexico, Ireland, Wales, Croatia, Greece. When I retired, I planned to travel more.
But then dad had his stroke. Much of his care fell on me. I then discovered a different more meaningful kind of “going.” Although I have always been contemplative by nature, I was thrown into dad’s silent world as I sat with him, matching his slow pace in feeding and moving.
My journey required a spiritual passport to the center of my soul.
Then Joe, my partner and love, died.
*******
In April. He died in April — the “cruelest month” — and I had to empty the house and ready it for sale. A dear friend helped me clear out 40 years of accumulated junk in the basement and garage in the blazing heat of summer.
Deep in grief, I thought I would crumble from physical and emotional exhaustion.
One afternoon we took a break from sorting and dumping and sat at the dining room table, the place Joe and I discussed politics, religion and our childhoods over scrambled eggs and pancakes. The memories smothered me in sorrow.
My friend took me in with compassion, talked about his upcoming cruise with his partner and some family members. In hindsight, he told me that my eyes “lit up” when he mentioned the trip. He continued to call me every week, not only to see how I was doing in the wake of Joe’s death, but to remind me of the cruise. He kept nudging. Gently.
But how could I go, I reasoned, with dad in hospice, and still grieving Joe?
*******
I was in 7th grade in 1962 when the country was embroiled in the Cuban missile crisis. One day, the good sisters corralled us into the narrow hallway of the school, lined us up on either side, and ordered us to pray the Rosary.
Classmates whispered that Russia had been stockpiling nuclear weapons on Cuban soil and the Russians were threatening to start a nuclear war. The sisters told us the hallway was the safest place to be right now. Bombs might fall.
My prepubescent self was terrified. I wasn’t ready to go. Not this way. Not yet.
While I stood in that hallway, I had no idea that dad’s top-secret work had helped detect those missiles. Working for Philco under a government contract, he was part of a team that developed the technology strapped to a spy plane that uncovered the ballistic missile sites. My connection to Cuba was closer than I knew.
President Kennedy appeared on national TV that evening. I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the black-and-white set and listened as he issued a naval blockade. And an ultimatum. The national and global tension was palpable. Russia finally backed off.
*******
In this world of impermanence, nothing lasts. Cuban dictator Fidel Castro died and a few years ago Cuba and the U.S. ended 50 years of hostility with Cuba opening its doors to American tourists.
I finally said yes to my friend’s invitation. At the end of March I set sail for Havana. On Joe’s birthday. I believe Joe arranged it this way.
Even so, I still have trepidation. That fear is about the unknown, not only with the trip, but with dad. I’ve been a caregiver for so long I don’t seem to know how to do much else anymore — I, who was once so adventurous.
*******
For now, the suitcase stares at me. It beckons me to stay open to life, that it will always be filled with dread, excitement and more.
And in the end, it’s up to us — you and me — what we choose to place in the suitcase of our souls and our lives.
I close my eyes and in memory I see that toddler, waving her Mary Janes in the air, filled with excitement for the journey. If I still had those shoes, I’d pack them, a reminder that life is short and when we get the chance to take the next step — we need to take it.
And somewhere I still hear her asking: Go? Go? Go?