Love, Your Backpack


Annabella Mi

Your backpack wonders where you are. It misses its partner in crime. Your backpack misses you.

Allison Mi, Copy Editor

Hey! It’s me, your backpack!

Don’t recognize me? It’s probably because I lost some weight over quarantine. The crumbled homework, stuffed notes and chubby folders now sleep in your desk drawers instead of my clothed stomach. Don’t get me wrong, I love my thin limbs and sprouting abs — nevermind that was just a layer of dust — but what’s the point when I’m stuck in the dark abyss of your closet, where no one can see my glow-up? And your third grade campshirts don’t count.

But do you really not remember anything? I was your loyal study buddy from day one, protecting your precious cargo even when the sky wept, concealing your test scores (especially when they were bad) and baby-sitting your homework on days they didn’t get enough love from you. I never said a word every time you dropped me onto the cold, hard school floor, not even when your gaunt thermos leaked your smelly fish soup through my nylon walls. I always had your back — and the fact that you had to go to physical therapy three times a week because of shoulder pain is not my fault. Okay, so now you remember me?

Well, what are you waiting for? Come rescue me from your dump of cartoon campshirts. Sling me onto your shoulders like you did until school moved into your house. And most importantly, tell me how skinny I look. 

Why thank you, you really didn’t h-hello? You still there? Because I’m still here: in the cavernous darkness of your closet, alone. I would love to be taken to my first class seat, any day now. Well fine, I suppose economy seating by your bookshelf could suffice. You still there? Just so you know, anywhere outside of your damp closet works, too. 

Even though you no longer need me to carry chipped pencils and bloated folders, I’m versatile! Hanging out with friends? I can carry extra masks, gloves, hand sanitizer and a six feet measuring tape. Going for a hike? I can hold your water bottles, ice packs, Canon DSLR, mini cooler, electric fan — or I could just pay for your physical therapy fee instead. 

The bottom line is that I do something. I would give up my baby abs from five months of Chloe Ting workouts to lend you a hand. I wouldn’t mind sleeping next to the cardboard-esque campshirts just to do you a favor. All the same, let me help — preferably with pencils, folders, and notebooks — but I’m okay with anything, just as long as I’m with you.



Your Backpack