Sweet sassy molassy, it’s here, and it doesn’t even smell like smoke or jet fuel or Vinny OR Artie.
I’ve never hugged a suitcase before, but it’s like that scene in Reds where Diane Keaton sees Warren Beatty in the train station, and she thought he was gone forever and–oh, Suitcase! I thought you were dead!
Thank you for your concern, everybody. Believe me, if I could figure out how to carry on all that knitting, I’d do it. It’s just too much stuff. Maybe I should buy a seat for it, like Yo Yo Ma and his cello. OK, so it’s really not like Yo Yo Ma and his cello at all.
Off to go stare at my suitcase again.