An ode to the everyday backpack

The alarm rings, reminding me that it’s time to leave for campus, so I stand up and reach for my backpack. The main compartment is organized with my materials for today’s schedule. It cinches up like a tan canvas duffel, covered with a callused leather flap.

You might say it looks broken in. It’s heavy like a bowling ball, but I slide my arms through the straps and it settles into place, matching the balance of my posture. It could feel like a burden, a weighted symbol of a student’s daily slog. But it’s more like a sidekick. I take it wherever I go.

My backpack was a Christmas gift from my mom freshman year, back when I still lived in the dorms and didn’t know what I’d end up majoring in. Four years later, I close the door on my studio basement apartment — dimly lit, pipes running through the ceiling, with exposed brick and one window that looks out on a koi pond in the courtyard — and march to the bus stop, past the cathedral on a leafy avenue near downtown Salt Lake City. In the morning heat, my backpack releases a sweet, earthy scent, like hiking through an oak forest. It’s comforting.

For about half an hour, I disconnect. The commute is almost meditative. I barely notice the other people on the bus, as I sink into the piano instrumentals playing over my headphones. The bus drops me off and I make my way to class. With a couple minutes to spare, I grab a snack at the campus store and slide it into a side pocket for later. I walk past the notebooks, feeling superbly prepared. I’m still first to the classroom, where I pull out my notebook and trade it for my cellphone, to keep distractions at bay. But as other students shuffle in, I open the notebook only to realize every page is full. I have nowhere to take notes. I think of my phone but this professor has a strict policy against devices in class. I’m stumped.

I was excited for today’s lecture, and I need the notes. On the verge of panic, I dig through the compartments of my backpack. It feels suddenly empty, just books for class and a few useless utensils. I feel resignation begin to take me. But just barely, I spy a blue corner of something peeking out from my empty laptop pocket. It’s a blue book, a lined booklet used for written exams. I flip through unmarked pages, flooded with relief. Eureka! I’m saved by the one exception to my careful plans — and this onerous blessing I always carry. Because of my backpack, I’m always prepared for whatever is thrown at me, even when I’m not.

This story appears in the September 2024 issue of Deseret Magazine . Learn more about how to subscribe .