Out of the bag

Over the last few years I've kept a heavy duck cotton tote by the side of my bed. It's a fairly ordinary bag, one of those of zip-up souvenir numbers that they give you when you show up at library conventions. At that time it could have been filled with any number of things: agendas, programs, heavy paper binders and pens and local chamber of commerce stuff. Hershey's Kisses. Apples and snacks and whatnot for the peckish to get them through endless workshops. Whereever the bag came from, though, is not relevent here, I suppose. What matters is what's in it now.

I needed a bag to stash things in a couple years ago. I needed it quick and fast and it mattered not a wit what was printed on the outside. I had letters and books and photos scattered all over the place, and all over the place was not going to do. I really don't think at that time that all those notes and books and framed pictures were going to be in there for long. Doesn't matter, either, I suppose, that the bag continues to find more things being stuffed in it sideways. It's a burgeoning, that bag, and I know that it's almost time for a bit of satchel renewal.

Maybe it's time for a chest or a pressboard box or something cobbled together by hand. Something scrappy and rough and weatherbeaten. Something that will hold up for awhile, something easily stashed in an attice or a basement. Something watertight, prying eyes tight and bug proof. Something that I can lock and unlock and stow away at someone's house, someone not too curious but who might have a vested interest in me and the end result of that box.

But for now that chest is just a cotton bag. Packed with novels and receipts and whatall. Matchbooks. Group photos. Poetry. Love letters.

It's not going anywhere soon. Least ways, as far as I know. And neither am I, M. Yes, as far as I know.

Besitos y embrazos para ti, mi amor.

WHMB