My Body's Just A Suitcase For My Soul
Today's title is from a Willie Nelson song and it perfectly sums up my philosophy of life. This 1949 model has a lot of miles on it and more than a few nicks on the corners. It's been roughed up by professionals and amateurs alike, dropped from high places, and left out in the rain on more than a few occasions. It's been kicked, bumped by cars, and even thrown into dark places. The exterior is lined and has a few gouges that my dermatologist said would add to its character. I can't tell you how many times the latches and straps have been replaced.
The interior is shiny from wear and the elastic in the pockets doesn't snap back like it used to. Look into the corners and you'll see the seams starting to separate and expose the supporting framework. There's a story attached to every stain that's inside, most from tears shed over losses, others from self-inflicted wounds.
My suitcase has a specific patina created by my experiences. I have grown comfortable with its appearance. Younger folks with roller bags and hard shell spinners breeze by and sometimes stare or smirk. I'm OK with that. Even if I could, I wouldn't upgrade to a newer model. I'm sticking with this suitcase until I get to unpack and fly.
Until then, the suitcase and I are off on another adventure.
