Packing Myself

I fold memories
of London in the summer,
heat in streets,
musicals, museums,
and mornings waking up
to Roy singing Mona,
to my family eating breakfast,
to my father going to work
while we have holidays.
I lay the folded shirt
from London
in a box.

I lay books next to it,
remembering the hours
and hours I spent
reading Funke and Moers,
reading Mayer and Marzi.
A man in a dragon costume
lies to rest
next to an evil Dornröschen.
Nytti looks up at me,
ready to go back
to Suomi
as I close the box.

I wrap mugs into paper
to keep the memory
of my cousin and me
in the Thorpe Park,
of my friends and me
playing Carcassonne
safe.

I tuck my recorders
in their bags.
Their wood reminds me
of hours
spent in small rooms
at university
with music
in my head,
with friends
by my side,
with lessons learned,
tears cried
and laughter.
How difficult it was
all of it
worth it.

Each piece I pack
a memory,
a reminder,
a part of me
and not.

I pack myself
into a jacket.
In me
all my memories
safe from objects
that might get lost
to time.