The Things We Carry
The Backpack
There's a backpack I'm always wearing.
It's worn in like the purple canvas Jansport I carried through middle school and high school. Comfortable and sturdy. Faded and covered with patches and pins collected over the years.
When I close my eyes, I can still feel the worn straps pressing gently into my shoulders. I can smell the faint mustiness of old canvas. I can still see the water stains from the day a flash flood filled the backseat of my little faded red 1983 Mazda GLC.
Most days I don't notice it's there.
But sometimes the smell of the air. A soft blanket. A passage in a book. The sound of a clock ticking or birds outside. The taste of something from long ago.
And suddenly I'm reminded.
Heavy, but manageable.
Every death or loss feels like another rock added to it.
Sometimes I close my eyes.
I feel the backpack.
And I find myself somewhere I've already been.
The Rooms
Grandma’s living room was cool and dark, she always kept the curtains drawn - in her mind this kept the warmth of summer and cold of winter outside. My grandfather played records at Christmastime. I tinkled the piano keys even though I didn’t know how to play.
We watched Wheel of Fortune together.
It also held hopes that were never born.
Fear of what was going to happen next.
My dad's apartment smelled of cigarettes, urine, and broken promises.
We moved my dad out of his apartment at the beginning of the pandemic. My sister and I went together to clean out what remained. As we opened up old boxes and containers that had not been touched since he moved in back in 1987, a rush of smells from when I was five consumed me. The smell of divorce and a five-year-old’s broken heart. He packed those boxes in 1987 when he moved back to the Bay Area. More than thirty years later, my sister and I were the ones opening them. Some things had stayed packed much longer than they were ever meant to. Surrounding those boxes were urine stains in the living room, fruit flies breeding in the kitchen sink, mouse droppings and bug carcasses, clothes stiff with age draped over the recliner. At some point he just…stopped. Broken promises and a life not lived have a smell.
Gma's house in Southern California smelled like Youth Dew in every room. The ocean breeze drifted up the canyon and into the house. The living room was bright, and the temperature was always perfect. My great-grandmother and Gma sit in their chairs while I play on the floor nearby.
Then she moved.
Youth Dew gave way to lavender.
The ocean breeze carried a different kind of chill.
The smell changed, but she didn't.
Playing games at her table while eating slices of chocolate cake.
Her relentless questions about my dating life.
The way she would look at you when you just said something clever and she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or smack you.
In every one of those places, I was wearing the backpack.
I just didn't know I was packing it.
The Newest Rock
Gma died on June 4th.
Her death came after my dad died the year before.
The end of a relationship shortly after,
Jewel's death in October.
And many other losses over the last few years until time itself began to blur.
Gma's death brought with it an acute awareness that I've moved closer to death myself. Something about losing the last of my grandparents changed my sense of time. It’s realizing that she will never sing an off-key Happy Birthday to me again. I’ll never see her eyes twinkle at me again. I’ll never hear the sound of my name leave her lips. She was the only person who called me Chris in a way that felt like it belonged to me. You could hear a smirk, pride, and love wrapped into that single syllable. She's the last of my grandparents and the one I was closest with. We understood each other in ways no one else did. She saw me in ways few people ever have. She made me feel deeply loved.
The Rocks
If I emptied my backpack onto the ground...
I don't think the rocks would have names.
Names tell us who someone was.
These would have words.
Belonging.
Being seen.
Love.
Home.
Roots.
Hope.
Integrity.
Courage.
Understanding.
Humor.
Curiosity.
___________.
Unpacking
Long before I understood grief, I had already started collecting the things people quietly placed into my hands.
I didn't know I was packing a backpack.
I never stopped to ask what I was carrying.
When I finally unzip it, I find...
slices of chocolate cake shared around Gma's table.
the ghosts of my dad's apartment packed into cardboard boxes.
my grandmother's kisses on both cheeks.
Gma's laugh.
the slow unraveling of dementia.
swimming in the pool with my dad before life became complicated.
the swiftness of my uncle's death.
Some things were placed there with love.
Others found their own way in.
Maybe that's why the weight of my backpack has never been measured by how many people I've lost.
It's measured by how deeply I've been shaped by the people I've loved.
The Inheritance
Grief was never the only thing inside.
People who loved me well.
People who couldn't.
Belonging.
Heartbreak.
Laughter.
Questions.
Curiosity.
Every one of them left something behind.
The Weight
Carrying the backpack is heavy, humbling, and honorable.
The backpack feels heaviest at unexpected moments. Driving to work. Coffee on the patio on a Saturday morning. The shower. Sometimes the expected moments are heavy too. Birthdays. Holidays. Milestones and achievements.
The most surprising moments are when someone looks at me and genuinely asks,
"How are you?"
It all washes over me, the weight, the tears, the heartache. The question opens something.
Suddenly I'm somewhere I've already been.
I’m standing in my grandmother's living room.
Eating chocolate cake with Gma.
Sitting on the floor of my dad's apartment.
Watching Gma and my great-grandmother talk while I played on the floor.
Grief has a way of collapsing time like that. I never know where I'll land.
When I lose my way, these are the places that help me find it again.
Maybe that's why I keep carrying it.
Not because I don't know how to let go.
Because every rock reminds me not only of who I've loved...
...but of who I've become because of them.
Now that I know what I'm carrying, I never want to put it down.
Reflection
When you close your eyes...
What room do you find yourself standing in?
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