They grab, poke and tangle, these tricky vines; wound around essential organs ~ like the heart ~ with a chokehold.
They aren’t like the luggage that is just too weighty.
The luggage that you can simply put down.
Or even like the chattels you once cherished that you can gently kiss goodbye and set free like a paper boat on the reservoir at sunset.
Things aren’t just things.
They carry with them a weight and a flavor. In my life, more often heavy and bitter than light and sweet; but memorable nonetheless. And I cannot touch things without remembering the feelings associated with them.
The soft satin trim on a baby blanket as I tuck a childhood poem into a box for Grad School. The pang of panic as I stroke the edge of the rocking horse that added that scar to a forehead. That one I move into the pile to sell.