My backpack essay

The day I got my backpack as a gift I remember how brand-new it looked. It was a light baby blue and grey North Face, with perfect shiny reflectors on the top and bottom of the face of the bag. At the beginning I treated it with such delicacy so I wouldn’t ruin its beautiful aesthetic.

Back then I never thought that this backpack would mean anything to me other than a really nice bag to hold my really heavy books and binders for the rest of my education career. This backpack was no ordinary backpack. To me it was something that I could use to fit in at school, because everyone had this backpack.

As the year went on I became more unaware of the delicacy of the bag. It was thin and tough, like an unworn pair of shoes. With every frustrating day, it was thrown onto the floor of the kitchen, or into a wall in my bedroom. It was stuffed full to the brim with the many things I needed every day.

My backpack survived four days in Buenos Aires, which gave it the aroma of sugar roasted street peanuts and cigarettes. On the other side of the country in Salta, I lived with a family. Every day I rode the public bus to get to “school”, brought my backpack with me to whichever activity was that day.