Going on a journey, specially air travel, and airports breaks me into a cold sweat. Days before I stop sleeping, fearing as if I am on a marathon. I dislike packing too. I never know what to carry with me. Take last year trips to Boston, Roanoke and Peshawar, I wasn’t equipped well for the weather’s vagaries.
I can never make up my mind. Should I take summer clothes only? Should I pack a sweater or two, or maybe a shawl? Another worrisome thought? Whatever I am carrying –will it suffice? Surely I won’t need anything at all. I try to give myself a mental shake, but it doesn’t help.
This year journeys are rushing towards me. My carry on, and duffel bag are out of the closet. They watch my antics at packing gleefully. They don’t gather how agonizing it’s for me to make decisions regarding what to take along.
I envy those light travelers who only have a backpack, or a small carry on. Compared to them, I struggle with my carry on, a shoulder bag and suitcases. My hair become dis arrayed, and a harried expression permanently settles on my face. I question myself on my sanity. Why do I put myself through this misery of traveling when I don’t like it at all?
The answer is: sometimes it’s a necessity. At other times — the thought that my daughter will think of me as an uncaring mother, if I don’t go and see her.
On my last year journey to Peshawar, Pakistan, I carried too many clothes with me. I should have gone without them. My wardrobe and suitcases back home were full of them. My memory had dimmed about my clothes after two and a half years gap of being here.
The result was that while coming back I had to leave them behind because of my baggage allowance.
Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.