The Backpack

My backpack is blue. It’s not new. But it’s the most important thing I own, because it goes everywhere with me.

My parents are divorced. That means they live in two different homes now. I live half the week with my mom and half the week with my dad.

On Sunday, I go to my dad’s apartment in Osaka. On Wednesday, I go back to my mom’s house. The backpack comes with me every time.

Inside, I keep my books and my pencil case. But I keep other things too. I keep a toothbrush, because I need one in each home. I keep my favorite red sweater. I keep a small photo of all of us, from before.

When my parents were still together, they were unhappy. There was a lot of shouting. Now the shouting is gone, and their relationship is better now that they live apart. But it’s still strange to have two beds, two rooms, two homes.

My backpack doesn’t care about any of that. It carries my things from one home to the other. It’s the same in both places. It’s always full, and it’s always mine.

Sometimes I feel sad, because my home is in two places now, not one. But my backpack is always full and always the same. It doesn’t change. When I put it on my back, I’m ready — ready for my mom’s house on one day, and my dad’s apartment on the next.

Both homes are waiting for me. And my backpack knows the way to each one.