Meet Severn’s Backpack

There is a dark black satchel-bag on the floor next to me with its blue accents and diamond stitch texture. It doesn’t stand out. It was made to get lost in the dark—to trip you up whenever you wake up in a sleepy daze. The adjustable strap gets caught on every chair leg it encounters. 

It’s a glorified messenger bag, able to carry a laptop and thin notebooks before bulging like a croaking toad. The plastic clips that strap it closed have bitten the fingers of those who carry them almost routinely. With rough fabric that resembles sandpaper, but a soft shoulder strap that bruises your shoulder with time, it creates its own personality with every use.

If you open the bag, the flap will ceremoniously interrupt your every movement unless you tuck it over the back. The lame remains of post-it notes lay crushed underneath a thick sketchbook, almost untouched, and several thin spiral notebooks. 

The only pocket in the main bag has been the holder of many things: my laptop, my mouse, precious books, and papers. Meanwhile, the pockets on the outside have seen many things: pencils, notecards, poker cards, candy. It’s seen the light of classrooms every time the flap is lifted. It’s seen the worn-down nails of my fingers reaching for an eraser. The fabric bag has never held a folder in its life, but it’s seen the words of many papers, the characters of many stories. It’s seen the rain that soaks through the top, but has yet to meet the sun.

The next best thing from a fabric tote bag: twice as heavy, ten times as explorative.