How to Pack a Suitcase

Elisabeth Nonas

Can we agree for the moment that a thing is just that specific thing and not a symbol of something else? Like, can a suitcase just be a plain old suitcase rather than a metaphor for baggage we schlep around?

Sure. And I’m the queen of Romania. Which I think is the punch line to some joke I don’t remember at the moment.

The only joke stuck in my head is a continuous one with my friend Alice. For weeks after Grace died I’d tell Alice about some dream I’d had. She’s a therapist, so I’d look to her for words of comfort. She’d say, “Dreams. Pah! How many times have I told you, Hannah. They don’t mean a thing!” And then she’d laugh, because she knew me well enough to know that that was precisely what I needed to hear, because I knew as well as anyone that each dream was just me talking to Grace, wanting her back, missing her, or getting mad at her for leaving me like that, a complete surprise, having a fatal stroke on the day of my retirement party.

But let’s stick to the subject at hand, which is packing, an activity I’m supposed to be doing right now instead of just sitting here on my unmade bed staring at my suitcase. My unopened suitcase.

I decide I should make the bed first.

But I don’t move.

I’ve slowed down a lot since Grace died. I chalk it up to a lack of motivation. But maybe it’s just a result of being seventy?

Which is why I need to pack my suitcase. I’m turning seventy-one and my pal Jordan decided that she and I should have a weekend in New York City to celebrate. A butch bonding experience. Though I don’t know how much more bonded we can get. She’s been my main support since Grace’s sudden death four months ago, taking care of me whether or not I wanted her to.

“We’re going into the city,” she’d announced one night during the summer, two months after Grace died. We were sitting on the lawn at their lake house. “I got us theatre tickets.”

I thought she meant she and Janey were taking this trip. “What are you seeing?”

“Janey’s staying home. This is just you and me. A surprise for your birthday.”

Janey came out of the house then, carrying a tray with hummus, chips, veggies. “All local. Well, not the chips.” She sat the food on the table between us and perched on the edge of Jordan’s chaise. One hand on Jordan’s thigh with the casual intimacy of couples, with the other she dipped a carrot into the hummus. “Did you tell her about her surprise?”

“Just did,” Jordan said. “She doesn’t seem too enthusiastic.”

Janey looked at me. “Go,” she said. “It’s only for a weekend.”

Since I’m retired, weekends aren’t really a thing anymore. Or not a necessary thing. Though since Grace’s death not much feels necessary to me.

“A change of scenery will be good for you,” Janey added. Which was unusual for her. She’s generally pretty hands off, letting me blunder my way through my grief, pulling Jordan back when she got too directive, a natural state for Jordan, who’s an associate dean at the college I used to teach at.

So I’d capitulated, said sure, fine, especially because the trip was months away so I didn’t have to think about it.

But now I do because today’s Thursday and we’re driving down tomorrow.

And I’m still sitting on the unmade bed staring at my suitcase. I can’t even move from here to get a pad to make a list.

Packing should be easy, right? I mean, we get dressed every day. Organizing for a trip should be a straightforward equation: number of days away plus travel time equals the number of outfits needed. Easy peasy. I’m a great packer, once I have what needs to be packed, a pro at putting things into the suitcase, working the puzzle of fitting shoes and other bulky items plus underwear, slacks, and shirts into a limited rectangular space. My weakness had always been the assembling, figuring out what to bring. I always wanted to have options, more than one shirt to wear with a pair of pants. And jeans in case I didn’t want to wear slacks.

Before Grace I never made a list. I’d go to the closet to select my pants and find a pair I hadn’t worn in ages. These are great, I’d think, and toss them in. When I arrived at my destination the contents of my suitcase would be like a surprise package, make me wonder what I’d been thinking when I’d so carefully folded everything. A shirt that only went with the pants I didn’t pack, and those newly discovered pants which, I realized now, I never wore because I hated how they fit. I’d walk around wherever I’d traveled unrecognizable to myself.

Grace taught me that planning is key. Not just a list (3 pr pants, 5 shirts, etc.), but a formula taking into consideration not just the trip’s duration but types of activity, number of occasions, and most importantly, did what you packed allow for mixing and matching? You can’t go wrong with a basic color palette—blacks, greys, white, maybe a splash of something as an accent color. Which now seems like a no-brainer.

Okay, so you’ve learned how to pack, but have you made any actual progress toward doing so?

Nope. Still sitting here. Because now rather than pack it’s imperative that I find the lead up to the punchline about the queen of Romania. I grab my phone and look her up. It only takes a moment to arrive at the source of my memory.

It’s not a joke, but a poem by Dorothy Parker:

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song, A medley of extemporanea; And love is a thing that can never go wrong; And I am Marie of Romania.

Fits me to a tee. I do better with sarcasm than sincerity these days. I read the poem again. I love the punchline. And it’s Marie of Romania (Roumania at the time), not the queen of. Which sounds much better, Marie, rather than queen of. It’s funnier.

Which reminds me of something else. I hear a voice in my head, someone with a Jewish accent saying, “Words with a K are funny.” I hear it explaining which other letters aren’t funny, but I don’t remember which ones. This sets me off again. A short time later I’m watching a scene from Neil Simon’s The Sunshine Boys. Walter Matthau plays an old vaudevillian, Richard Benjamin plays his nephew, and Matthau’s telling Benjamin which letters are funny. K’s. Words with a K are funny. L’s are not funny. Neither are M’s.

Maybe I should re-watch the whole movie.

Boy, I must really not want to pack this suitcase.

Come on now. It’s not that hard. You just need whatever you wear to drive down, plus one outfit for Saturday, for the museum and theatre, and a clean shirt for traveling home in on

Sunday. And underwear. And something to sleep in. And a toilet kit. Sweater or jacket. Phone charger. What about slippers? Something to read?

See, already it’s getting more complicated. Nothing is what it seems. A quick trip into the city represents a huge step forward in my life without Grace.

Deep breath. Let’s look at the situation. Your best friend is trying to help you out here. Knowing that this will be a tough birthday since it’s the first without Grace, she thoughtfully planned a weekend getaway, dinner, theatre, even a list of art exhibits to check out. You should do this. It’ll be fun. You’ll have a good time. Grace would want this for you. You’re getting on with your life.

Right. And I am Marie of Romania.