Tag: mothers day

I still have the backpacks

Every one of them

Kindergarten dinosaurs
faded superheroes
broken zippers
ink stains
the straps worn thin
from years of carrying
small important things

They sit inside plastic totes now
stacked quietly in the house
like sealed chapters
of a life that happened too fast

Sometimes I open them

And suddenly
the years come rushing back

little lunch boxes
crumbs at the bottom
folded spelling tests
a forgotten pencil
the smell of childhood
still hiding faintly in the fabric
like time never fully left

People say:
why keep all of that?

But mothers understand

Because those backpacks
once moved through this house
attached to small boys
with untied shoes
sticky hands
and entire universes
still tucked inside their laughter

I carried them through
field trips
divorce
growing pains
late-night homework
broken hearts
and all the ordinary holy moments
that disappear before you realize
they are becoming memory

Now the house is quieter

The backpacks do not move anymore
But when I see them
I remember this truth

for a little while
I was the center
of somebody’s whole world

And maybe that is why
I cannot throw them away

Because inside those faded bags
lives proof
that love once ran wildly
through these rooms
calling me Mom