If my mother were a spirit, she’d lure me to a friend’s home under the pretense of purchasing an old bike because that friend was moving out of town to work at her Dream Job and needs to get rid of her things quickly.
If my mother were a spirit, she’d make that friend’s name Amy. She would not have to do much to ensure my schedule was so hectic that getting Amy’s home would be a routine challenge, which would never lead me to expect I was going to be surprised (not haunted) by a spirit.
If my mother were a spirit, the day I arranged to pick up the bike, I’d be 40-minutes late and go to the wrong house. After a few text exchanges with Amy and complaints about how one street can be both NW and NE, my husband would see my growing frustration and offer to drive.
If my mother were a spirit, she’d make sure Amy had cute vintage suitcases and a travel case on her porch marked for donation.
If my mother were a spirit, she’d know I’d ask about them because I like odd items.
If my mother were a spirit, she’d have Amy say, “If you want them just take them. I have a few other cases on the side of the house. Want to see them?”
If my mother were a spirit, she’d have me say, “Yeah, I want to see them. The girls might like to have one too.”
Amy and I would walk down the stairs of her enclosed porch and onto the sidewalk, and, then around to her driveway where the other two travel cases were sitting.
The essence of every moment I’d ever experienced being Mutasha’s daughter swept across my soul and filled my eyes with tears of humble gratitude and thankfulness the instant I saw the green and tan travel case.
My mother had this exact travel case. She filled it with many items of personal value; I rummaged through it, often without permission. It smelled of Wind Song perfume.
If I believed in spirits, my mother would be a spirit and she would bring me the gift of a green and tan travel case. When I opened that case, I’d find these words inside it and wonder what more she wants to tell me.