The Bag by the Door

People die. 

From old age. 

From sickness. 

From accidents. 

Sometimes, because they choose to.

It’s part of life. 

No one is immune. 

But it’s never easy,

especially for those left behind.

Whenever I used to see it happen,

I’d think

They still wanted to be here. 

Why take them? 

It should have been me.

I wished it was me.

I had my bag packed. 

Everything folded. 

Everything ready. 

I was prepared to leave.

But only because, for better or worse, I wasn't brave enough to go by myself.

But they left instead.

And I stayed. 

Not because I wanted to. 

But because I had to.

I’ve unpacked the bag now. 

But it still sits by the front door

a quiet reminder of where I could have gone. 

Of how close I came. 

Of the weight I still carry.