| �2001 by Rebecca J. Burke & Hashbrown Casserole for the Matchbox Twenty Soul, Inc. |
| Growing Up On Her Shoulder |
| On a Saturday of no particular importance, I was bought. A young girl's mother purchased me for thirty-five dollars. I was so happy. The little girl was happy too. When her mother gave me to her, I was a wintry white with bold, black straps, handles, and zippers. As I passed from mother to daughter in the den, I noticed a dingy blue backpack on the floor that laid in the corner. My girl immediately put her toys in me, and our lives began together. My girl took me everywhere, and she said I was her friend. I held her Sesame Street books and her tea party cups. I beheld countless pens, pencils, crayons, and coloring books. But, like all little girls, she grew up. Once she hit sixth grade, I was no longer her friend. Long ago a bearer of Barbies and teddy bears, I was now a bearer of books and band instruments. But, like all adolescent girls, she grew up. I became a well of expression. She hung keychains from my every zipper and crevice. She wrote things like 'I Luv John,' and 'OC Rulez,' and 'Peace in the Middle East,' and 'Have a nice day!,' on me with a permanent marker. But, like all teenage girls, she grew up. I held her work-out clothes with loving care. I protected her whirl-wind romance novels. I protected every possession of hers she entrusted to me. My only complaint is she left me in the rain, spilled 7-Up on me, threw me in the dirt, cut my loose nylon threads; she cared for me in the most strangest ways, but I knew she loved me. But, like all women, she grew up. I carried her love letters when she was dating. Her senior prom memorabilia. The box from her engagement ring. Her college graduation invitations. Her curlers on her wedding day. Her ultra-sound pictures. Her clothes when she went into labor. Her son's diapers. And, the plane ticket to her parents' funeral. Then, on a Saturday of no particular importance, I was lying in the corner of the den, watching her son play with his toys. She walked in, and handed him a bright red backpack. I did not mind, because I knew I had served my purpose. It was the red backpack's time to grow up on someone's shoulder. So, he immediately put his cars in it and ran off, and, like all little boys, he grew up. |