Photo from Sankarshansen's Wikimedia page.
It’s a return trip, so the bag’s full of dirty laundry, and tchotchkes, and one layer entirely uncertain: an origami of jotted notes, dog-eared leaves torn from a local rag, a drying pomegranate flower on a sprig I plucked before I flew home.
Like an old vaudeville joke, the space inside the case is larger than it seems from the outside. It also doesn’t smell like socks now—there’s a moment when I turn, and the room fills with a faint smell of fresh-cut grass.
I’m thinking about beacons: web beacons, those tiny whisperers that hop our trains of thought as we roam from site to site, and harbor buoys, a very different sort of beacon, when my fingers find I’d missed a pocket. Inside it, a contract: a few months’ more light.