Unpacking Sydney

In journeys
we are completely at the mercy, not of memory but of the road 
we take, which carries us across moonlit worlds and skins
at the same time that it waylays and alters us within.

- From "Orpheus and Eurydice" by J. Neil C. Garcia

It is time to unpack.

You fumble with the zipper, lift the suitcase's cover, and out come the streets of Sydney: the non-intrusive drone of cars breezing past you as you walk down a busy side street, people's arms lightly grazing yours, a mumbled "sorry" or "excuse me" as men and women rush to work under a benign morning sun, gazing down at you as you make your way to the office, with Jessey walking beside you, talking animatedly about the evening before, the both of you wondering what time Rolly and Bo will arrive and if they will ever arrive before you do, what sort of ice cream Pionna will buy today, or will Vin be frowning before his laptop, preoccupied with a phone call, and what dish Cy will whip up for dinner. You remember telling the girl at the counter, "one latte with three sugars, please, and a Coke for my friend." Geraldine said to try it with two, instead, because any more packs won't make a difference. You remember saying, "but I like my coffee sweet," when Phil expressed some barely concealed surprise at how much sugar you put in your coffee. Craig, marching in, turns the lights on and says, "good morning, everyone!"

You pause and smile. Ah, Sydney mornings.

Will you ever make progress with your task, with all these memories coming at you like sudden bursts of sunshine?

You resume, taking out a trip to the beach. And another, and yet one more. You run your hands over memories of sun, magnificent blue, shouts of glee, murmurs of delight, the sound of camera shutters, butter pecan and banana ice cream, people milling, strewn across wide expanses of sand, pink and green cocktails. A pack of beers, warm coffee. You remember the feel of the sand, warm against your toes as you sit on a smooth, grey stone and watch the waves crash against boulders, and you bottle up the beautiful sound that they make, the wondrous sight that it is. You remember a cold wind blowing patiently to and fro, and you shiver a little at the memory of shivering, sway a little at the memory of being swayed by the gusts, warm up a little when you remember the long walk to the other side of the beach and all the other memories that come with it: friendly chatter, harmless banter, exclamations of wonder at how all these will be but memories later, laughter over blackbirds, clumsy attempts at transforming into poetry the fugitive sand that has found its way into thighs and--

You laugh and laugh some more. You are lucky to have been with the best companions you could ever have had. You sigh and wonder how unpacking could be so difficult.

You shut the suitcase and place it back in a corner. The unpacking will have to be done another time, when you are farther removed from all these memories, and less inclined to zone out.

You daydream about the beach, instead.