A Hillsborough Community College Student Publication since 1978.
By Lorien Mattiacci
Daddy’s suitcase had a bumpy plastic shell, blue, like the seats at the airport, like the armrests on the bus… the blue that takes people away.
A shiny silver band wound around the rim like a bullet train holding two clasps with two tiny keyholes like my little diary… a place to lock secrets and take them away.
I remember throwing myself on it the day he left; the bumps burned my fingertips as I slid slowly off, leaving fading blue scars while my little body folded to the ground.
Daddy! Please! Take me with you! Who will take care of me if the taxi takes you away?
Daddy’s suitcase delivered him from the small house on River Cove where cockroaches lived in my patent-leather shoes, and strange men paraded through at all hours, where odd smells filled the air at night along with laughter at nothing and loud requests for junk food, where morning always seemed to catch the remnant revelers off guard, and there was a small child with no one to care for her.
Daddy’s suitcase delivered him, and on alternating weekends, or on special occasions as granted by the divorce decree or Susan’s whim, Daddy’s suitcase delivered me.