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 pen, its ink a way of writing a future that would be great.

The pockets of my ripped jeans were the tale of my wanderings. A ticket to a train to a town I'd never heard of. A pebble, a mountain pass, smoothed by the wind's gossip. The crumpled piece of a payphone number, a reminder of the life I was leaving behind.

The pockets of my old man's coat are now a safe, known place. They have a couple of handfuls of hard candy to share with my grandchildren, an act of love. A small notebook full of names and phone numbers of my old friends, a group of people who remember me when I am not thinking of them. And hidden in the back, a faded photograph, the one from my school photo, the girl with the soft smile and soft eyes. I never talked to her, but she's always been there, a silent witness to a life measured in the things I’ve carried with me.