We all carry around some baggage. Like passersby in a crowded airport, each of us cling tightly to our luggage. Some purses, some backpacks, some suitcases or duffle bags. Neatly labeled with our name, age, and even address. How comforting that no matter if we grow, change, or even move, our baggage will find us. On days like today it feels like I own a trunk. My feet, as if they’re fitted into cement, ache against the weight holding me. Tell me, can you really let go of the past? Or does the Past have to graciously loosen its grimy fingers from your collar in order to breathe again?