My Mother’s Suitcase

We came with just a small suitcase,
one small suitcase for five children.
In the suitcase their home-sewn white headscarves, socks, pictures,
regret, sorrow, separation, fear, memories, and hope.

Today, twenty-five years later,
this suitcase is still untouched.

As if we were waiting for this moment,
the moment we have to take the suitcase and leave.

But where?
Where are we welcome?
Where can we unpack the suitcase unafraid,
the home-sewn white headscarves, the socks, and the pictures of my mother?
Where can we give the regret, sorrow, separation, fear, memories, and hope a home?

My mother’s suitcase is still untouched.
So how can I say that I have arrived?