She gets the suitcase from under
her bed and opens it with a key.
First she puts in the tartan
blanket, the colours of Macmillan
blue purple green and red,
pads it round the edges and starts
to pack. Then she really begins.
She puts in her mother’s scarf,
purple, her favourite colour.
Next a wee bag of jewellery,
diamonds the size of the hailstones
outside, her pearl necklace
that shines, emeralds mint green.
She adds the china teacup, covered
in flowers, bumped and gilded
at the top for memories
of tea with her Gran. She realises
she needs money, adds a purse
of coins. She tosses in a picture
of her dad, when he was young, though
she doesn’t remember him like that;
it’s just an old picture she likes.
She remembers to put in a packet
of matches for light, warmth.
She needs things for her children,
adds a toy teacup and saucer
for daughter and football trainers
for her son. Finally, she adds the key
to her treasure chest, and another
to her own front door,
in case she’s able to come back.