A LIFE MEASURED IN POCKETS
My first pocket was in a pair of faded blue shorts. It was a shallow, flimsy thing, but it was a universe. It held a handful of smooth river stones, a crumpled bus ticket, and a single, sticky sweet that I’d been saving for a moment of quiet rebellion. The world was vast and full of wonders, and my pocket was the treasure chest that held them all. My school uniform had more voluminous pockets, and it held heavier objects. A dog-eared photograph of a girl I didn't have the courage to address. A broken pencil whose lead had been snapped by a fit of rage. The apathetic weight of an attendant lunch money I was requested to spend but, instead, retained, a quiet, useless defiance against the terms of a world in which I was not yet well-qualified. And my first pair of long legs' pockets thereafter. Man pockets, serious and with purpose. A rumpled job application, the folds a map of my worry. The smooth, cold face of one house key, a promise of a life to be had. A pen, always a p...
