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…