Was it aimless?

With only a vague notion now
of mobility,
she recalls a grey Samsonite suitcase-
she played endlessly with the straps
and pockets-
and remembers thinking ‘how small I am,’
how she could curl up inside
and be carried far, far away.
The luggage tags could be changed,
she knew,
to read wherever her heart wanted.
She practiced the writing carefully
on leaves and gum wrappers.
How many afternoons were spent
packing and not getting anywhere?
How often was it
a tawdry Howard Johnson’s
instead of a
lake near the mountain
of her dreams?

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