I don't know what to pack, and so I dawdle for hours, fingering clothing and necklaces. What will I need to have there? The sweater set she got me for my birthday will make her happy to see. The silver necklace with an old photograph of a bare oak in Central Park will place me there, in my roots, when I begin to lean the other way, afraid. Whose voices will I need to hear? I pack Adrienne Rich, Mary Oliver, and Woolf's The Waves, for doses of femininity like chocolate that is really too rich to eat. I will need these women like water when the well runs dry. In go my journals with dates beginning in 2006. I'll need to sense myself. The marquesite necklace that was Nana's would wrap her past around my neck as I'll want it to be, but I'll have no occasion to wear it. The little gold ring with a jagged pink stone is so conservative, so constant as I wore it as a girl. There are other rings I lost, and I want to take this one to make sure it is safe, but I have another ring on my finger now ... Hot chocolate from Theo for Christmas and the scarf I am knitting for her. No one else will have one this Christmas. Only her, and then I'll make one matching for me. I don't know what to take with me -- everything, perhaps, that she will leave behind.