Why didn’t I tell you how I felt before it was too late? You were black, like every proper backpack must be, always and forever. We would never have been together otherwise. (I know that makes me superficial.) Somehow, even though you were small, you always felt large to me. You were cheap, in the best possible way: a dear friend recommended you, a daypack that is now $40 but was $30 or even less then. You were so capacious and so, well, accommodating. I took advantage; I see that now. You were a weekend backpack. You were honest about that from the beginning. But I was greedy: for me you transformed yourself into a month-long bag, full of heavy books when you didn’t carry dirty clothes and boots. Now I see that the constant strain you were under destroyed you. I destroyed you. You never said anything.
We were together for at least a dozen years. (I’m ashamed to say I didn’t even keep track!) We saw four continents, maybe more; we shared countless flights and bus and train rides. You, jammed into small spaces and over-stuffed, usually with food; me, literally using you for a footrest. I know I’ve apologized about that time in the Delta lounge in Sea-Tac, where someone tripped and spilled coffee all over us both. It wasn’t my fault, but I still feel bad – I wish I’d done more to protect you. From that day, you smelled weird, even after several washings, and you were always a bit sticky. But I didn’t stop loving you. In fact, if anything, I loved you too much.
It wasn’t perfect, even at the beginning. You were a stubborn backpack; one of your main zippers had been sticking for years so the other one had to do all the work. And the lining of your inner pocket ripped the first time we went somewhere, getting worse and worse over the years. I take the blame for that. I am ungentle with backpacks; you are not the first one I’ve hurt. You claimed to be waterproof, but you weren’t really. That was always a source of friction, minor but irritating. And, while I tried to appreciate them because they were yours, I never understood all of your fussy little pockets. I don’t really need separate compartments for my pens and keys and phone. But that’s my shortcoming too. Never being able to remember what I’d put where, I did not let you reach your full backpack potential.
The potential loss of a beloved travel companion inevitably brings out the worst in me. I become cold, unfeeling. Remember the hiking boots I abandoned at the bottom of a canyon in Ecuador? Of course you do. Probably, even then, you knew what was in store for you.
I didn’t want it to end like this. There we were, beginning our journey to Oslo. A new city! I picked you up by one of your worn but still slightly-reflective straps. You made a small, unwilling, groan of protest. It sounded like a tearing of the very fabric of your soul. Even then, you were too kind to point out that it was preposterous for us to call ourselves ‘minimalists’ when you were jammed to the gills with our crap. I tried to pat you reassuringly throughout the bus and then the flight – I have no idea what you were going through. It seemed like we might make it.
We did, sort of. Your seams began to come apart as we made our way from the plane to the airport to the train to the streets of Oslo, our new home. All of a sudden, your insides were outside, or starting to be. Oslo looked like our kind of town, I noticed dimly; most of my energy was concentrated on willing you to keep it together. You collapsed just inside the doorway, forlornly, near the suitcases. I had to talk to the owners of the apartment, who were telling us lots of useful things. But my heart was with you, little backpack, you who would not be enjoying Oslo with us. You who – in a final insult to your memory – would be thrown into the trash.
John made me do it. He said you were beyond repair, and he was right. (He’s not proud of himself either.) But you were suffering so, and we knew you couldn’t make it through another flight, let alone trips to the grocery store, where we’d pack you full of heavy liquids.
The new backpack is beautiful. It cost five times what you did, maybe more. It’s a black Osprey Archeon 28 with padded hip stabilizers and lumbar support. I’m older now, and I’ve gotten a little clearer about my needs. That said, it’s a ‘daypack’ too. I put too much in it, always; I guess I will repeat some of my mistakes. I know this will hurt you, but I think I might be a little bit in love with it already. I’ll never forget you and all we did together. But I have to move on.
