I used to travel light, A backpack slung over my shoulder, A brush, spare clothes, hopefully a toothbrush. The shoes on my feet—worn and dusty as they were, Would suffice for all occasions.  Now I grimace as I wedge yet another pair of socks Into the increasingly stuffed bag. Our trips require spreadsheets, checklists, safety measures, “Can we roll the car seat? Did we remember the pacifiers? Do they have a pack and play? What if it rains and it’s cold?”  Our car is a game of Tetris—one which thankfully my husband excels at. The dog lounges under small swinging legs in the backseat, He secretly loves it as goldfish are covertly passed to him by chubby hands, Stops are all too frequent, snacks are passed with an alarming speed, “How much longer? Are we there yet? I need to go potty again!” echo on a loop.  ‘I used to travel light,’ I think for the umpteenth time, Remembering those beach trips in college, Those spur of the moment, throw some clothes in a bag and go adventures. The weightless feeling of youth, the freedom taken for granted. Its laughable, the comparison to my present state as a woman traveling with most of her home for a three-day trip.  Yet, it’s not just the needs of my babies that fill our car. I’ve changed too. No longer the carefree, half-grown child who blows where the wind takes her. I have a specific pillow that’s become essential to good rest, My lotions and potions to keep my skin healthy, A book, water bottle, headphones, and laptop peek out from my bag. All deemed necessary.  My heart feels the weight of my anchor called home. Not a place, but my people, my calling, my loves. Even on those rare solo trips, my heart yearns for their snuggles, their voices, their chaos. You cannot take home with you when you travel, But the feeling of safety, of love, of belonging packs well.  Our car may be filled with things, but they are beloved to those whom I love. The worn, threadbare Lovey. The green bunny blanket. I’ll ensure each sits snuggly beside their car seats, Because all too soon they’ll be packing light themselves, Flitting off to what’s next, hopefully remembering a toothbrush.  I pray they’ll always know their anchor waits patiently, A home filled with memories and once-loved stuffies, A table laden with favorite comfort foods and snacks, An old dog still awaiting treats, And a mother and father, whose hearts are packed tightly with love. Copyright © 2024 Allison Bobzien

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