Ma Valise

At the end of their relationship, she packed a small blue suitcase, scolded her cat for biting the handle, and left Los Angeles for the convent.

In the crook of her arm, she carried his brain in a jar.

Ball jar.
Rubber ring seal.
The pickled eternal he always wanted to be.

Together they took up residence in a small room on the second floor above the cheese cave. Every day smelled like a new age of cheese. She placed the jar on the corner of the desk where it could sunbathe from three to four each afternoon. After the sun passed, she pressed her ear against the glass, curious if he was still thinking. She swore she heard him whisper, “This is why I’m not a monk. I like cheese better than Chartreuse.”

She swept the convent’s kitchen floor, missed her cat, and spent time in the library before going to bed. There, she read about the French monks and their secret recipe for a peculiar green drink. Chartreuse.

Back in her room, she unfolded the pajamas from the small blue suitcase, snapped it shut, and, from her knees on the floor, whispered to the feathers in the pillow, “This is why I’m not a monk.”