A blue middle-sized suitcase, placed on the sofa and waiting to be filled, is a constant reminder that he is leaving soon. Things, mostly clothes, are piling up around it, waiting to be folded in. He will probably start putting things in sometime soon and I’ll watch quietly, trying hard not to tell him how to do it. In the end he’ll figure out that I’m better at this than he is and I’ll throw everything out and carefully place everything back, just the way it was supposed to be, because I know how to do it properly.
The hour when the phone will ring and his brother will tell him that he’s on his way here to pick him up is closer and closer. I’m not happy about it even though I know that he’s excited. It’s not that I don’t want him to go, or that I’m not happy for him. It’s just… I’m already missing him. Knowing that the blue suitcase will soon be gone… knowing that the apartment will soon be quiet and empty… knowing that in the evening I’ll go to bed alone and that no one will be hugging me in the morning… knowing all this is killing me.
I try not to look at the suitcase and I try hard not to think of the moment when I’ll be left alone. I want to take advantage of every moment spent with him, remember every word and smile. But no matter how hard I try I can’t change the fact that I’m already thinking of the moment when he’ll come back and we’ll empty the blue suitcase together and put it away until one of us, or, preferably, both, leaves again.