I slept beside my mother’s unopened suitcase

Dear Delyara, My mother came to visit me from Turkey for the first time in eleven years. She died on the second night. We had eaten lentil soup, argued about whether my apartment was too cold, and planned to visit the river in the morning. She went to bed and did not wake up. The police and ambulance took hours. Her suitcase remained beside the guest bed, still locked. I have not opened it. It has been nine days. My sister keeps asking whether Mother brought the gold bracelets she promised to divide between us. I tell her I have not looked. The truth is, the suitcase feels like the final version of my mother that she prepared herself. She chose what clothes to bring, which gifts to wrap, which medicines to pack, what she believed she would need for three weeks in my life. Once I open it, there will be no more unknown mother inside. There will be folded blouses, perhaps baklava wrapped badly, and the slippers she always carried because she mistrusted other people’s floors. Tonight, I dragged the suitcase into my bedroom and placed it beside me. The wheels are muddy from the airport. I put one hand on the lid while trying to sleep. I know she is not inside it. I also know it is the last closed thing in the world that still contains her intentions.