Chapter 12: January 14th Bag

I wake up on Tuesday morning, and I know something is different. I don’t know how I know. I don’t know why. But I know. Something has shifted. Something has changed. Something inside me has cracked open th, like ice is cracking on the river. The way the ice is breaking up. The way the water is starting to flow.

I stand up. I walk to the window. I look out at the world.

The snow is still falling. It’s been falling for weeks, months, years. It feels like it’s been falling forever. The world is white. Everything is white. The streets are white. The houses are white. The trees are white. Everything is white.

But something is different.

I don’t know what it is. I don’t know how to name it. But something is different.

I walk to the kitchen. Ingrid is there. She’s making coffee. She looks at me, at my nakedness. She doesn’t say anything.

She pours me a cup of coffee. She hands it to me. She doesn’t say anything.

I drink coffee. I sit at the kitchen table. I look out the window at the snow.

I think about the bag. The bag over my shoulder. The one thing I haven’t shed.

I think about why I need it.

I’ve been thinking about it for weeks now. I’ve been thinking about why I can’t let it go. I’ve been thinking about what it means. I’ve been thinking about what it holds.

It holds my books. My notes. My phone. It holds everything I need to survive.

But I don’t need it. I don’t need anything. I’ve been walking through the world with nothing. I’ve been shedding layers. I’ve been shedding everything.

But I can’t shed the bag.

Why?

I think about the question. Why can’t I shed the bag? Why do I need it? Why do I need something to carry? Why do I need something to hold onto?

I think about my father. I think about how he carried things. I think about how he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. I think about how he never let anyone help him carry it.

I think about how I’m like him. I think about how I carry things. I think about how I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. I think about how I never let anyone help me carry it.

I think about the bag. I think about how it’s the last thing I’m carrying. I think about how it’s the last thing I’m holding onto.

I think about what it would be like to let it go.

I finish my coffee. I stand up. I walk to the door. I put on my boots. I grab my bag. I sling it over my shoulder.

And I walk out into the cold.

The cold hits me like a wave. It’s been cold for weeks, months, years. But this is different. This is sharper. This is more present. This is the cold I used to feel before I stopped feeling anything.

I feel it on my skin. I feel it in my bones. I feel it in my breath.

I feel alive.

I walk to campus. I walk across the Washington Avenue Bridge. I stop in the middle to look at the river.

The river is still frozen. But the cracks are getting wider. The ice is breaking up. The water is starting to flow.

I stand there, naked, looking at the river. I think about the ice cracking. I think about the water starting to flow again.

I think about what that means for me.

I think about the bag. The bag over my shoulder. The one thing I haven’t shed.

I think about what it would be like to let it go.

I think about why I need it.

I think about my father. I think about how he carried things. I think about how he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. I think about how he never let anyone help him carry it.

I think about how I’m like him. I think about how I carry things. I think about how I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. I think about how I never let anyone help me carry it.

I think about the bag. I think about how it’s the last thing I’m carrying. I think about how it’s the last thing I’m holding onto.

I think about what it would be like to let it go.

I walk to campus. I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.

And I don’t wear anything.

On Tuesday night, I walk to the library. I walk through the stacks. I pass the history section, the sociology section, and the philosophy section. I turn the corner toward my usual table.

He’s there.

He’s sitting in the same seat, wearing the same coat, looking at the same river.

I walk up to the table. I sit down. I take off my bag. I put it on the floor.

He looks at me. He looks at my naked body. He looks at my bare skin. He doesn’t say anything.