Backpack on the Chair

When it wasn't on my back, my backpack lived on this chair in our dining area. Each morning, I would heft it onto my back and walk over to Open Door Coffee Company here in Hudson to do my morning's work.

Back on the back it would go for the walk home, and I would sling it into this chair, where it would rest until my post-lunch return to Open Door for my early afternoon's work. Then ... back home, another slump into the chair, where it would rest until the following morning. And I have done this for years--even before Open Door opened its doors--the days of Saywell's, Coffee on Main, Caribou, Bruegger's, Hattie's Cafe (as I closed one, I moved on to another--except Bruegger's, of course, which endures despite my daily presence there for about a year).

So what's in that backpack? Books. a writing tablet for note-taking. My Kindle. My iPad. Supplies (mechanical pencils, pencil leads, ink refills, spare pens, a small stapler and some staples, a portable charger, a stack of note cards--each featuring a poem I've memorized, assorted junk that I've totally forgotten about ... I think it weighs about forty pounds when loaded--good exercise, those walks to and from the coffee shop.

The last day I went to Open Door was Saturday, March 14, when I decided I was going to play it safe in COVID Times. (I'm in a vulnerable demographic: 75 years old, cancer patient.) Since then, I've been doing all my work here. Joyce and I used to go out for daily walks, but the streets can be crowded, so we stay in and ride our exercise bike (she, early in the morning--I, about 2:30 p.m.). The only other time we go out for any extended period is to Acme Fresh Market to pick up our online grocery order for the week. We sit in the car; an employee brings the order out, puts it in the trunk for us.

But the backpack still sits in its chair. Day after day, night after night. Week after week. Month after month.

Joyce commented on it the other day--said it made her smile, seeing it there.

Me, too. Smile and grieve.

I want to sling that thing on my back again, walk over to Open Door while reciting some memorized poems (silently, in my head!), sit and work and interact with other Regulars. I want to look out the window at some of the glorious sunrises I can see from "my" chair.

So ... the backpack reminds me of all that, and sometimes I think I can almost hear its plaintive voice: C'mon, man--let's go!

Don't I wish.