Higher Ground

I packed in a rush for a flight from Italy to India. After I left the house I realized I had left my sunglasses behind, but there wasn't time to go back. I got on a bus and rode through the countryside. Looking out the window I saw a small trailer detach itself from the back of a car, roll across the highway, and come to rest in a field. I wanted to tell the driver, who hadn't noticed, but had no way of signalling. Almost immediately he pulled off the road, not thinking about the trailer, pulled a tarp up over his windshield, and went to sleep. Part of the time I was on foot, following a young backpacker along a raised narrow footbridge with many turns. He was too slow. I asked him if I could pass just as the walkway turned steeply upward to go over some houses on higher ground. I wondered if I was on the right bus. At one of the many station stops, I got off and went inside and asked someone, "How do I get to Sicily?" I didn't mean Sicily; I couldn't remember the name of the airport town. Out the window, I saw the bus slowly pulling away. My suitcase was on it! On top of that, I had forgotten to pack my passport. I really couldn't go without it. I could get my sunglasses too when I went back for it. Then I thought it was probably in my shoulder bag, which I had with me, where I normally keep it. I had rushed outside. A man from the bus was standing there with a small jumble of luggage. That big black suitcase might be mine—I couldn't remember exactly what it looked like—they must have left it for me. I rummaged in the pockets of my strangely empty shoulder bag and found my passport. "Here it is," I said to the man, holding it up. I picked up the suitcase, which was unexpectedly light. "That's mine," he said.