At the Gate

I packed the bags and slung them around my shoulders a while ago and set off down the road.

Actually, it’s not just the tidy bags with shoulder straps. I’m also juggling the stragglers that wouldn’t fit in the bags. The two shirts still on hangers, a fan with its cord swinging like a tripwire, and an open box of kitchen odds and ends threatening to spill.

And now I’m standing at the gate.

The guard’s looking at me through the safety of the guardhouse window. He’s on the phone checking my credentials. 

I don’t know what he’ll say. 

So I wait. Trying to keep it all from hitting the ground. My forearms are burning. My back is tired. Things are slipping. I readjust every few seconds.

Any moment now, he’ll wave me through.
Or he won’t.

If he does, I’ll stumble through, drop everything in a heap, and let my muscles recover for just a minute.
If he doesn’t, I’ll have to turn around. And I’ll lug the same load back down the road I just came.

Either way, the waiting will be over.