I never intended to buy a trunk. Let alone an old dusty musty trunk. That Saturday began like all my other Saturdays conduct research, write papers. More research, more papers. My Saturday night blurred into my Sunday morning as due dates loomed. Still swilling coffee, I fed my horse, and got into my car. As if not of my own volition, I started driving. Driving away from the deadlines towards North Carolina. I veered off the interstate heading on a mapless west of freedom. Sunlight streamed into my car, and the road felt comforting under my hands. Hitting the breaks, I stopped to read a sign, “Estate Sale, Today Only”. I turned into the drive and meandered up a steep hill and parked under a magnolia. The yard was full of someone’s lifetime gathering of stuff. I wandered into the old faded-blue painted house, and veered into a room where only one item remained. My trunk. I didn’t know I was looking for a trunk, but there it was. As if waiting for me to come lay claim. Give it a new sense of belonging and making it mine.