It was a dark blue Janson backpack, which had belonged to my daughter in high school. The zippers felt sticky as I began rummaging through, discovering all that I had been secretly carrying for years.
In the outside pocket was the little pack of white lies, crumpled Kleenex already pre-stained with crocodile tears.
In the side pocket were all the things that I had lost or pawned for drug money - my dad's little gold travel alarm clock, encased in green leather; my mom’s platinum wedding ring, both of my grandmother’s sets of pearls, countless single earrings.
The other side contained all the locked diaries, stale letters, and old emails that I should not have read, but felt compelled to know, much to bitter regret.
I reached into a center pocket, but sliced my fingers on the sharp blades of blame, those barbed shurikins flung out in anger. They were protecting tiny packages of grief, each beautifully wrapped and tied with silk ribbons; no need to get into them just yet.
As big as it was, the medical scale - the kind you hate stepping on when you go to the doctors, the nurse pushing the weight more and more to your growing dismay, no matter what the numbers actually say - came out easily with a resounding thud.
Then the snarled ball of jealousy, a sickening chartreuse, not worth untangling the infidelities, the betrayals, the love triangles, the ins and outs of nonmonogamy, all the bad breakups despite good intentions.
So much shame came tumbling out, as acrid as yellowed cat piss, while I tipped the backpack upside down. Memories of shoplifting the gold and jade pin in elementary school, stealing rolls of quarters from Sunshine Farms for laundry money when in college, and all the times of driving drunk.
I scraped out the mouldy helplessness, the ineffective thoughts and prayers, the absolute despair at the news each day, whether it be Ukraine, Gaza, or L.A.
Now, for the main large pocket - I lifted out the gilded crown of thorns, studded with blood-red rubies, and noticed how easily guilt lay on my head, keeping me frozen in victimhood or too busy being a martyr. Too busy feeling guilty to do anything of consequence.
By now, the trash can by the bench was overflowing, as I dumped asthma inhalers and Sudafed, vestiges of allergies and illness, as well as the albatross of a failed business that kept haunting my dreams. I let go of each of my masks, the fake mustaches and the clown shoes, all the props of feeling the imposter.
The blue canvas backpack felt light, filled now only with stories of survival, a few bad puns, and those precious packages of grief. With a sigh of relief, I unfolded my astrology chart as a new map, checked my moral compass, and knew that I was headed in the right direction.
