In my life, there were always bags.
It’s 2012, and Mom is pushing a cart in between the racks of colour-coded purses at the Winners down the street from the Superstore we frequent. I’m looking up, marvelling at the glitziness of the plastic and zippers, cross-eyed from the dizzying fluorescent lights.
Like Mary Poppins, Mom is searching for something to hold the world over her shoulder. And I’m disoriented, but all my thoughts are flickering to focus in on a floral purse — I want it over my own shoulder. In there, I want a wallet stacked with strange papers, coupons and cash of continental currencies. I like its side pocket, shaped into the perfect compartment for my lip gloss and my hair clips and my Barbie doll that I take on long trips but that no one’s allowed to know about.
When I got my first big-girl job, Mom gave me a handbag that had been collecting dust in the depths of her side of the closet. It had the perfect compartment for my lip gloss and my hair clips… and my tampons and deodorant and pepper hair spray. Now my Barbie sits in the splits under the stairs, laced with cobwebs, and I spent all my Swiss francs in Zurich two Julys ago.
Sometimes I feel strongest when I’m walking in strides larger than me back from the Superstore I frequent with 12 kilograms worth of groceries catapulted over my shoulders, soup cans and creamer knocking against each other in assorted totes tearing at the bottom.
But I don’t tell Mom my back is rounding, because she’ll warn me about menopausal headaches to anticipate from holding tension at my neck. And I won’t tell Baka because she’ll throw me into yoga and a child’s pose as soon as I reach her for the summer, inhaling and exhaling into the floor of a mirrorless studio until blood rushes to my head.
In my suitcase, I’ll be carrying gifts that convince Baka it’s worth it to be apart. On the plane ride back, my side pockets will be stuffed with blouses and skirts that make me feel like a lady, and my tongue will untie itself from massacring this language that is pushing me toward generations of moms.
To be of these women is to always greet them with bags full of stuff. Because I’m never visiting for the day, no, I’m always staying a while — or at least until I can start to feel the tension I’ve put into me finally unravel itself down my spine. The change from knowing myself that happened away from this love, away from this hierarchy of funny deviations from maternal tradition, melts into, “I can stay one more night” and “I’ve saved room for another serving of goulash.”
Last week, I tried on Mom’s and Baka’s clothes that found themselves in a pile slung onto my bed, breathing weakly so I could run my hand over ribs and drink in the emptiness. I felt pretty. The women in my family are quite small.
Then it was 1 a.m. and I slept for four hours, waking up the next day to get on with it — bags under my eyes, bags over my shoulders, feeling shitty for feeling complete though I haven’t called home since September.
Can I show you I care so much? I’m sorry I don’t feel the urge to tell you I’ve been living just for me — it’s because I know you can’t do the same. You’re in a proxy network of selfless action, I’m a satellite runaway.
In my bag, I’ve got everything I need to clean up after myself, and in your bag you have extra tissues because you know I didn’t bring enough. In those Superstore tote bags, you come home with a week’s worth of meals for four, not one.
Now I’m retreating and coming back — once, twice a week — sweeping out the door in rushed hushes because I’m full and fed (up).
I’m a nomad and nobody to anybody. I’m everything if everything goes back to a maternal hunger all knitted into dirty laundry and hesitant “I miss you”s and legs crossed over one another on the couch in an attempt to feel found again. Where I’m superimposed on women devoid of purpose unless I’m home for dinner.
I’m of something more. I’m sorry. Let’s see what’s in my bag — I bought dessert. We’re intertwined. I love you, I love you, I love you. Let me out.
I promise I’ll be home by 9 p.m.
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