inktober, but make it literature
day 1 - backpack
I met you at a weird time in our lives. You were kind of listless, unattached and this faux version of carefree I didn’t see through. It seemed your only constant was this old backpack you carried everywhere, and really it felt like you brought the damn thing everywhere.I asked you about it once, and you explained it was better to be prepared.
“Prepared for what?”
“Prepared for anything.”
You carried duct tape and first aid supplies. A sewing kit, a lighter, backup phone chargers. One of those thin foil emergency blankets, some rope, always a knife or two.
I thought it was overdoing it.
Looking back now, I understand. You’d been through the ringer and failed by the people who were supposed to help you. You’d learned that the only thing you could rely on was yourself and your ability to be prepared.
We weren’t prepared, though. Life kept throwing shit at us, and no amount of duct tape or band-aids could mend the hurt you had been through.
Through whirlwinds, we clung to each other and that damn backpack.
You had to replace it after your car accident. The backpack was soaked in blood and shimmered with shattered glass.
You brought the new one to your dad’s funeral. A cross-country flight with just me, you, your mom, and your emotional baggage. Your family was overjoyed to see you. You were devastated.
It traveled with us through several homes over the years, and it remained a constant.
It came with us to an ultrasound scan when we learned we were having a daughter.
I said you brought that backpack everywhere with you.
One day, though, you stopped carrying it. It goes with you on important trips, but day to day it stays home, tucked away in your office.
I think, maybe, you’ve finally found a sense of stability. I hope so, anyway. The backpack was around longer, but I’m here now to help you unload.
