September 6, 2011

travel-sized

That aisle at CVS with the miniature shampoos, the small squares
packing deodorant, plastic bottles with five swigfuls of mouthwash, the Q-tips lined
like matchsticks in their transparent box – a certain romance blooms under the stares
of these fluorescent lights. At the start of the trip, I tell myself I wouldn’t mind
living like this forever. But halfway through, the little creams and body washes
break from their caps, melding into pools of goo, and the treads of this affection
grow thin. So soon the story turns. I begin the countdown to departure, keeping caches
of the stuff to hold me through the week, and dream of a singular direction –
home – though there I know the rumblings will, too, rev again. A minor battle stains
each journey, how to stay and when to go. I pinch at tubes and squeeze out the remains.