Upon My Mother’s Passing. I’ve left bags in almost every city…
By: Melanie Eddolls
Tags: Travel, Moving On, Death, Regret, Grief And Loss

Baggage Claim

I’ve left bags in almost every city, state, and country. It’s become an art, really. Some I’ve walked away from, some I’m left in airports, hotels, Airbnbs, hostels and with friends. Some I’ve gone back to, reclaimed, and sorted through. The everpresent, ongoing search for the things that “still fit.”

Others, I’ve given away, thrown away, repurposed. This bag, this particular bag from Texas, is too heavy. There isn’t enough designer luggage in the world that would be sufficient to hold all that is stuffed inside, hidden away.

I stare at this loaded bag for a while — choices. I am afraid to take it with me but I know I can’t leave it behind. If I just walk away, it’s the “unclaimed bag,” the ultimate threat for all of the explosives the contents hold — it’s what they warn us about over the loudspeaker at airports. “If any bag is left unattended…” It’s that thing we dread and try to prepare for. But there is no preparation for such things.

Only weeks before the call, I had just returned from Portugal. Three years as a digital nomad. New York to Valencia to Portugal to the US again then to New York then to Lisbon, Porto, Algarve…..it had been life-changing and I was going back— 90 days. I was just here to “do my time.”

But life comes, and it changes us.

Out of nowhere there comes the call — — the call that always comes from Texas. Texas-my Waterloo. It was a complete shock. I know what’s ahead of me. The long look back, the questions, and the regret. The big black bottomless bag of regret.

How could this have happened? I had been to the house, tried to retrace her steps, searched for a clue as to what went wrong. What could have been so bad that she chose a way out? Chose to shut us out. She had always been so perfect, orderly, and organized. What went wrong? Who had let her skeletons out of the closet? They had always been there, lurking in the shadows. If you listened, you could hear the bones grinding against each other when her defenses were down. Still, the “click-click” was so faint you almost forgot they were there. Here in her closet, among the designer bags, perfectly hung dresses and fashionable clothes, the end seemed unimaginable.

Now, it’s over, or it’s begun depending on which way you look at it. Flowers distributed, casket bought, hugs given, condolences accepted, I am retreating to New York. It’s always made me brave. Shoulders squared, ticket in hand, I wander for a bit. I’m confused as to which terminal. I have been here a hundred times, at this airport, but I am disoriented. It is like walking through molasses. I feel the security of the bag on my shoulder — Hartmann Luggage, of course. Her favorite. I check it. I board. I fly.

I’ve landed. I walk to baggage claim. I walk to the turnstile and watch the lonely bags roll out one by one. These bags, someone else’s bags, are full of stories, full of hope, full of trips yet to be taken, of memories to be made.

Finally, my bag shoots out and passes by. It’s loaded — the good and the bad — and, despite my overwhelming urge to walk away, I claim it.