All my life
I have never owned
 my own suitcase.


Every family trip or vacation
 I borrowed from my mother
 or even my father,
 in order to stow my belongings
 for the road ahead.


In August,
 I bought my first
 very own
 in my favorite baby pink. 


In it,
 I packed what I needed
 for the leap I was to make alone. 


Trading northern Californian winters
 for the warm, hot beaches by Los Angeles. 
Trading rows of grapes
 for rows of palm trees.
Trading the rain fall
 for hot desert sand. 


I drove for eight hours
 alone and fearful, 
 with my suitcase,
 nesteled in the trunk.


In it,
 I packed my dreams,
 I packed my mother's wisdom,
 I packed my father's advice,
 I packed my brother's sense of humor.


Momentos I needed for the quiet nights I would face alone.


That pink suitcase
 rests under my desk
  tucked away for the next adventure.


Last year seems like a past life,
 to think I was thinking
  of never hitting the open road.


I climbed up anxious hills,
 to have my first taste of freedom. 
 and boy,
  there's no stopping me now,
   not until,
    I can climb, 
     every mountain,
      in my path. 


This poem is about: 
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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