Thirteen years ago, I packed my bags and left Chicago, leaving behind a large green suitcase at my uncle’s place in Evanston. His house, a sprawling structure with a basement that felt more like a maze, made it easy to stash my suitcase in a quiet corner while I caught my train. I figured it would be fine there, at least for a while.
Fast forward seven years, and that suitcase, now a forgotten relic, finally made its way to my parents’ home. My uncle and aunt stumbled upon it in their basement, tossed it into their car, and dropped it off while heading to their cabin.
I didn’t really think ahead about what to do with the 150-pound bag. Honestly, I had no immediate plans for it—just a loose notion of when I might finally retrieve it.
Another two years went by before the suitcase made its return to me, again carried by my parents. It spent a year sitting in my messy garage until my wife finally nudged me to move it downstairs. Now, it’s just a few steps away from where I work, sitting there and subtly demanding my attention.
please don’t reply
That suitcase is probably around 150 pounds, and I haven’t opened it in over a decade. What’s inside? I can’t even recall. It might be sheet music or something like that. Or maybe bricks? I wasn’t a bricklayer but rather a musician, which is likely what I packed.
The suitcase has this resemblance to an unopened letter. You know the kind—staring at you, waiting for a response that never seems to come. Even if I do receive an email, I sometimes just let it sit there, telling myself I’ll get back to it later or maybe in the morning after I’ve had my breakfast.
But as time passes, those responses never materialize. Days turn to weeks and suddenly to months, and the longer I delay, the harder it becomes to address it. I’ve gone weeks forgetting to reply to an email, only to remember in a flash, wishing it would somehow just vanish.
single person’s luggage
That suitcase has turned into a vault of memories from my college days. It’s stuffed full of old papers, worn-out T-shirts, a Nokia phone, hard drives, fake IDs, and textbooks I never bothered to read. It’s everything that takes me back to a less polished version of myself.
This box moves along with me, shifting from one apartment to another, and even making its home in attics and basements. I keep telling myself it’s time to let it go. I don’t want to see it or pass by it anymore, but something about throwing it out feels wrong. I catch myself saying, “I can’t just toss it away,” and then I procrastinate for another six months.
It’s like the growing clutter in your basement. Each year, the boxes seem to multiply while the space shrinks. I keep promising myself I’ll finally clear it out, take things to Goodwill, but as spring cleans fade into years, the pile just keeps growing.
We all have our emails, boxes of clutter, junk mail—stuff we don’t have the willpower to tackle. Logically, I know it would be simpler to deal with things as they come, but I just don’t. Facing the past, the choice to throw something away—that’s a personal challenge we often avoid. So, most of it just sits there, untouched.
Every time I think about that suitcase, I know I’ll eventually have to crack it open. Inside will probably be old etudes and compositions, echoes of my past filled with forgotten notes and scribbles from professors. There’s a certain nostalgia tied to it, like stepping back into a time I haven’t revisited in ages.
Smiling at those memories, I face the dilemma of what to do with all that old sheet music sitting on my office carpet. I can’t just toss it. Who would willingly give up music? My father didn’t end up using it, but I always did. Maybe it’ll be useful for my kids—or I could convince myself to hold on to it so I don’t have to say goodbye. I plan to tuck it back into that suitcase, though I can’t say when I’ll finally get around to it.
