Dad’s baggage is everywhere. He was the first person I knew that didn’t feel the need to hide it. All spread on the ground, taking up the entire space. It was a mess.

Mom always hid hers, nice and tidy. Not one thing slipped out. As my sister grew older, she did the same because why burden other people with the ugliness? Besides, everything is more seamless when the ugliness is hidden.

Along the timeline of childhood, my own baggage grew. Mostly, the bags were filled with unpleasant things. Like the time when someone raised their eyebrows at my fluent English, or the time I wore a dress to a dance for the first time and some boy said I looked weird. Most were memories like these, painful and hard to keep in the front part of my brain, so I stored them in the back, tidied up as baggage. But as the days went by, it became harder and harder to limit them. All of them, too heavy to carry on my own, so I decide to let one loose. I cut the strings that bound those unbearable reminders that told me I took up too much space. Was I too much to bear?

At first, I cut one strand, just to release memories too painful to withhold. The strand, being a weight I bore every day, cracked and split into a crevice. Then the crevice broke into a gaping cleft. Afterwards, the tearing started.

Later, Mom found out and yelled at me. She complained I was being too messy. I sewed all the loose ends back together.

Anyways, Dad didn’t say much because I don’t think he noticed.

You know, I never tried again afterwards.

I can’t figure out, or maybe I just forgot how I felt after Mom yelled at me. I can’t recall if I felt relief. Maybe I was angry too.