Arranging Yesterday

To keep myself in check, I have a big black trash bag next to my duffel.

3-12 months of travel is a weird amount of time to pack for…

So far, I have packed 30 pairs of socks, 20 pairs of boxers, 8 T-shirts, 3 polos, 2 button-downs, 4 pairs of pants, 2 pairs of shorts, one bathing suit, one sweater, 5 baseball caps, one pair of flip flops, one pair of sneakers . . . but what else was I missing?

My toothbrush, my tongue scraper, my travel mouthwash, and my Waterpik . . .

Copious amounts of ZYN in different flavors (all spread across multiple bags in various pockets with the hopes that Thai customs don’t assume I’m a smuggler).

Every item dropped into my bags requires a mental battle before it’s admitted. Briefly, I have to allow rationality and sentimentality to duke it out for what matters most in terms of weight-to-utility ratio. And, to keep myself in check, I have a big black trash bag next to my duffel. Any items deemed unnecessary (not just for this trip, but for my life in general) get tossed into the trash bag.

At 2:37 pm my mom texts me an emoji-dense message telling me how much she’s going to miss me -- and it should be heartwarming but for some reason it's just outright frustrating. Almost something Freudian going on there -- something like the timeless trope of mothers trying to hold their sons back from other worlds, other women, and so on.

I go through my stash of various medicines -- antibiotics, antihistamines, pain-relievers, etc-- and I ration out a relative dose of each to bring along in my makeshift pill container (a camping shot glass with a rubber air-sealed cap).

What about face lotion . . . will I even need face lotion? Isn’t Thailand known for face-melting humidity as is? What’s the point in synthetic moisturizers when you’re moving to nature’s goddamn sauna?

In the background, Seinfeld season 8, episode 22 is playing (the one where Kramer wins a Tony Award by accident.)

When I check my phone again, I notice that my old roommate from boarding school (whom I haven't seen in two years), and a girl that I hooked up with a few times in Colorado (but also haven't spoken to in years) both have mysteriously texted me suggesting that we “catch up one of these days” . . .

Why is it that things work like this? Months and years will go by where people white you out from their memory . . . then all of a sudden everyone comes out of the network’s woodwork at the exact same time and tries to squeeze in an appointment. Sort of makes you wonder . . . do we emit signals?

While taking a piss break, I stare into the mirror adjacent to the toilet and notice my toiletries collection in the mirror’s reflection. Jesus, I almost forgot to pack my beard and ball trimmer. I grab my shaving kit and bring it with me out of the bathroom, where, after rearranging a few things, I shove it into the deep recesses of my primary checked bag. 

And finally, after two hours of playing Tetris with my belongings — and after quadruple checking that I’ve zipped my passport into my carry-on’s outer pocket —finally, I debate whether to bring along some financial documents. This requires me to go diving into my bin of documents where I happen to come across dozens of love letters from my ex-girlfriend.

It’s just too tempting.

I sit on the ground next to the bin and begin to pour over stacks of my ex’s love letters.

Reading them back, I notice all the stupid subtleties that meant nothing to me when I had her under my thumb. I notice the color of pen that she wrote in, the spacing and neatness of her handwriting, the cadence of her messaging, the doodles she drew in the corner of the page . . .

I feel like a detective, except instead of seeking justice, I’m seeking closure.

Why did she sign that letter with her real name and this letter with her nickname? Why does it look like she’d faltered when she’d written the word ‘love’ in her sign-off near the end here? Why did she mention missing my ‘smell’ in the letters from October-December, but then switched to missing my ‘brain’ in the letters from January-July?

My phone dings again. An email from Turkish Airlines.

“It’s almost time to Check-in for your flight to Thailand!”

4:07 pm.

I scrap together all of her letters, and I reach for the big black trash bag.

Maybe there’s no such thing as closure . . .

Maybe that’s your closure.