What will I need? What shall I take? I reach for the holdall on top of the wardrobe. I put the photograph inside and press it flat against the base of the bag. It is mere minutes since I removed it from the frame and yet already it is creased. A pre-digital snap, beginning to fade and a little out of focus, it certainly looks the part as if it has significance and has endured, survived. And we do share a history, she and I, but I take the photograph from the holdall and, refolding it, lay it on the bed beside the broken frame.
What shall I take? I’ll need clothes and opening the wardrobe I step back. My things are packed in tight and the rail sags in the middle. I have more than I can take and I’ll have to sort through and decide but not now.
Carrying the empty holdall I make my way downstairs and in the lounge I stand in the centre looking around. It is pretty sparse. Just a few scattered ornaments and trinkets, more photographs and pictures in frames. Perhaps I should wilfully take from in here, choose the something I consider to be the most insignificant.
I move closer to the shelving unit in the alcove on the far wall and I notice her books, those few she left behind. I lift a hardback from on top. It is heavy, a brick, a mighty tome. It will at least act as ballast and I shove it into the bag.