$800 in bags in the month of August, 2014. Each bag feels like it is the solution to the inner-runneth-over of me-ness.
As if. As if it will be the repository and container. As if the four walls and small zippers of organization and preparedness, “Oh. I have a band-aid. Oh. I have Benadryl – children’s or adults? You need a stomach thing? You have the runs?”
Uh oh. That’s the one thing I don’t have. Gotta get to CVS. Meant to go to CVS. Ran out of time. And now, exposed. I am not prepared. I am not ready to meet your needs, even with all the pockets and small bags inside big bags that keep the health things separate from the gum and hair clip things.
How did this start? I have always liked bags. But the sickness? That has come on in my married, pregnant, divorced, single parent, looking for love, Jewish-in-Brookline-self. It came from deciding to turn off the machines and wait in the quiet of the night as her breath slowed to nothing. My head on her heart, listening. It came from grief.
Sure, I kept moving for my son, my boy. Up and down. Awake. Asleep. Parks and running after balls. But my eyes were glassy. My face puffy. Red lights were moments to give in to the tug, to gush tears. Felt like bleeding, really, stinging scrapes, deep gashes, valleys of chasms of torn stitching. Gaping open wide. So surprised. Demolished.
And it makes me want a bag. Put it all in something beautiful. Carry it around; no one will tell, be able to know. The beauty of organized heaps.