Childhood books in my suitcase

I am packing to go to Inbound 2017 and beyond.

Here’s a story.

I look through my garage. It’s a mess of house moves and life moves. After a while, I haul out my big suitcase. The one for big trips. It hasn’t been used for a while, and it’s dusty.

And extremely heavy.


It’s a beautiful sight.

It was full of my childhood!

Redwall, Animorphs, The Animals of Farthing Wood, Narnia, The Lion King, Brer Rabbit, Nursery Rhymes.

I stood there, the light breeze rustling up the smell of my childhood and taking me back.

  • Snuggled up in bed with my parents reading to me. Asking for the same story again and again.
  • Borrowing videos from the local store, repeatedly. Tracking my favourites.
  • Unwrapping the next book in the summer holidays, and rushing to read it by myself in a corner of the hotel.
  • Copying illustrations from the books as soon as I learned how to hold a pencil.
  • Aspiring to write like that author one day. And that one. And the other one, too.
  • Loving animals, and being convinced they could talk if I listened the right way, based on these stories.
  • Discussing American and English grammar, and TV adaptations, with my favourite teacher.

All of these moments that made me, all together in one suitcase.

It was perfect.

Except for one thing.

I am packing to go to Inbound 2017 and beyond.

Oh yes.

They are in the way. So, I let each book go.

The suitcase is no longer heavy. It is ready for me to travel light, into the future.