Briefcase

On May 1st I woke up with a briefcase.

I wasn’t surprised to find it there,

sitting beside my bed,

but the weight was unexpected.

When I lifted it,

it was heavier that I thought it’d be.

I took it to work because I figured

that was what you were supposed to do with a briefcase;

stuff your files inside and use it to carry them around.

The thing is:

I didn’t consider myself a briefcase person.

I didn’t really think I needed one,

there weren’t that many files.

The briefcase disagreed.

It went everywhere.

During dinner with my family,

it sat across the table and eyed my mac ’n’ cheese.

It situated itself formally in the shared office I made phone calls in for work,

the brass clasps shining under the fluorescent lights.

Worst of all,

it became so normal that I sometimes forgot about it,

only to suddenly find that 15-pound stack of papers back in my arms.

I wanted to scream.

Why had nobody noticed?

Why wasn’t anyone pulling me aside,

asking why there was a briefcase next to my beach towel?

“Don’t you see this ugly thing?”

I wanted to ask.

“How do you not know it’s there?”

The files in my briefcase are sorted by name,

in the same order every time.

This is strange;

I’m not particularly good at names.

Sometimes I become worried I’ll forget them and open it slightly,

just to run my fingers over the color-coded tabs.

Riley Howell

Reed Parlier

Drew Pescaro

Emily Houpt

Rami Al-Ramadhan

Sean DeHart

In between the files are assorted scraps of paper,

notes I must have written at one point.

The quickly-scrawled handwriting says things like,

“You weren’t even on campus.”

and

“You shouldn’t be this affected by this.”

and

“Don’t take up space in this conversation,

it isn’t meant for you.”

There’s a thumb drive with just one file saved on it:

a 20-slide long Microsoft PowerPoint presentation titled,

“Do I have trauma or am I inventing this in my head?”

I showed it to my therapist to get her opinion

(she told me to delete it)

but I sometimes find myself revisiting the slides at 3 a.m.

There are days when I manage to catch someone else with a briefcase.

Sometimes we just give each other a knowing nod,

a smile from across the street.

Other days I find myself compelled to open them both and swap notes.

Do you have the same brand of sticky notes?

Please don’t judge my chewed pencils.

I have a recurring daydream

in which I throw my briefcase on a crowded conference table,

slamming it so hard the clasps break open.

The papers and thumbtacks and newspaper clippings

would fly into the air,

drifting down to the floor in front of everyone watching.

“Here,”

I’d say.

“Look at all this shit I’ve been carrying around.

Deal with it so I don’t have to anymore.”

Then I’d storm out of the conference room

while they cleaned up the mess.

But instead I keep it by my side,

not a file out of place.

I try to forget it’s there,

until I can’t take it anymore and feel forced to point it out.

Please see my briefcase!

Know that I’m stuck with this thing!

I’ve engraved April 30th on the handle in hopes people will read it

and understand.

They don’t.

I’m so damn tired.

I know that I should do more than send funds to

the Committee to Ban Briefcase Manufacturers.

I should speak up,

do something.

But for now,

this briefcase is still too heavy.

I’m testing out new ways to carry it though.

Two hands instead of one.

Asking a friend for help.

Shoving it into a Baby Bjorn.

I just have to find a new way

to carry the weight.