WORDS • IDEAS: RAFAËL BARNWELL
A Green Suitcase by Rafaël Barnwell
The loud music playing in the café across the yard pulls me out of sleep. It’s still dark inside but sun rays from the outside world are beaming. Like when I’m tucked under water, heart beats keep me afloat, voices above get louder. Light tries to make its way to me, through the hideous blind. It’s thick, grey and made out of plastic. I didn’t choose it. It comes in handy to move into a fully furnished place when you’re new in town. With only a green suitcase. It’s priceless not to own much. I inherited the few plants from the previous tenant. And her blanket too. Remnants of paths crossing. The plants are by the window, breaths of life for my humble abode. The blanket embraces the couch now. Color for the charm. I will be here for awhile. As wet sheets get thinner, I burst the surface like a new-born child. I roll to the other end of the bed to check my phone waiting on the bedside table. It’s the large green suitcase actually. I use it as a table. It found a perfect place. The time shows. And a few messages. My window to the other side. Canada. It’s my little brother. They got the house. Is he more adult than me now? I look at my green vessel. The dark stains on the corner from conveyor belts. My eyes shift to the tired blind. I tug on the string and it rolls up, singing loud screeching sounds. Sun pours in. Like when I’m whispered to myself, mind shapes more parts of me, visions ahead get clearer. Five steps and I’m in the kitchen. I make myself a bowl of cereal. I miss baking banana bread. The warm smell spreading throughout the house on a Sunday afternoon… Blueberry muffins too. This apartment doesn’t have an oven. My sister tells me I should get one of those toaster oven things. And have it out on the counter. PAGE 58 | THE PURPOSEFUL MAYONNAISE
