The old bag is dead!
Finally, after all these years, gone. Rest in Peace.
She was black. As black as the ace of spades in Whitby jet. Ancient skin too, leathery, wrinkles on wrinkles.
But she was always there for me, opened at my touch, ever easy to enter and never—not even once—complained. And now she is gone, lying in state as I write these words. She’s in no hurry now, and will be going nowhere, at least not until I’ve finished this last coffee, dedicated to her memory; and then with all due respects and ceremonial she will be relegated to the garbage bins of history.
Gone, yes, but not forgotten. Life moves on without her as it must and the new rises phoenix-like from the memories of the old. She will live on in a new form, her duties taken by another; younger, sleeker, fairer of form and easier on the eye—reincarnation made manifest, as it were.
Dammit—I will miss her.
We’ve shared life together for years, through thick and thin, fair weather and foul, covering many thousands of miles under all conditions. Perhaps that’s what prematurely aged her: too many storms, too many extremes until finally she gave up the ghost. I blame myself, I shouldn’t have overloaded her, I should have checked her health more often instead of—as we men too often do—taking her for granted. More the fool me.
Perhaps it was the combination of all factors that forced her, in the end, to simply slip out of my arms and fall to the back seat of the car with no warning, not even a sigh … and that, as they say, was that.
I MAY BE OLD FASHIONED
Okay, I know I am. Sue me. But I too have feelings … sure, I dress for comfort rather than style. Style and I split company years ago, today I prefer lived-in scruffy; stylish once I gave it up for ease and convenience. The closest I come now to being conventional is getting dressed to go to town and that’s it.
Once upon a time a ‘man bag’ was considered essential kit for the young poseur around town, I never grew out of it. Portable office at my fingertips before there were lap-tops and storage for everything from a Swiss Army knife to bandaids and emergency coffee. Heavy? Anyone laughing at my ‘lady’s purse’ need only be biffed with it the once, no medieval mace or battle-flail packs so convenient a punch.
PERHAPS I OVERLOADED HER
just once too often? Might even be—but thanks to The Spouse’s acumen her replacement is several sizes larger (I’ve actually seen smaller seabags) and I’ve only a few minutes ago finished transferring her contents. The newbie swallowed all I had to offer and just sat quietly with her mouth open wide, coyly challenging me. I love her already, and hope she will serve me as well as her predecessor for as long or more …
“Rubbish,” mused The Sage to me once, “always expands to overflow any space available.”
Looking at my new companion I think that finally The Sage may be in error. I hope so. Certainly any progression from here would of necessity involve wheels. Or native bearers working in shifts (do those guys who built the pyramids still make house calls?).
IN THE MEANTIME
I’ll just keep humping her myself while pondering all possible meanings of the word ‘Fickle’ …
Fill your bucket with water
Put your hands in up to the wrist
The hole that remains
When you pull them back out
Is the measure
Of how much you’ll be missed~!
.—The Sage, piqued