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As a child I never emulated women who carried purses. I suppose it seemed silly to carry something when you didn’t have to. After all, my mother was always pleased to make room in her purse for my belongings, no matter how meaningless. 

It seems, as we begin to move independently from those who care for us, that we begin to carry our own things. In small ways at first, gradually gaining items of more importance with age. Eventually, we stop asking for help. We are alone with our possessions, perhaps this is greedy. It may even be a diminished form of alienation. We hold the weight of what we want, what we are, and, more often, what we need.

As I grew, my mind started to fit into these ideas. By the age of twelve I had conformed to the idea that I wanted to hold my own things. I fell so deeply in love with this idea that as I grew, so did the bags I carried. 

I remember my first purse well. It was a hand-me-down from my sister, who always knew what was in style. It was a knockoff designer bag with a collage of C’s plastered across the front. I fantasized about holding countless objects in it’s silky beige interior, being able to go anywhere. It felt like being free. I’ve come to know that this was the major turning point in my life.

I was able to go out with my friends now that I could take care of my own things. There was no one to hold a spare pen, or a receipt. None of us shared what was inside of our purses. It was like a secret guessing game that we never talked about.

In the years to come I found myself needing and wanting more things. My purses became tote bags. I couldn’t justify leaving a notebook home. I always needed three pens, and two flashlights. Incase I ran out of ink, or the power went out. None of this seemed strange. It was just my bag, and nobody could convince me it wasn’t the norm. 

One night I opened my bag and stared into it’s vastness. All of the sudden things become less coherent. Why did I need and want so many things? Why was everything so necessary? I gave myself one of the best favors I’ve ever received that night. My bag and I headed into my mother’s room and  showed her. For the first time since I carried my own weight, I handed it off  to someone else.

In the years following that night I began to lose more and more of the things from my bag. Soon I dreaded even having to carry the essentials, but I was always aware of what I needed. I want so much a moment where there is nothing I have to hold. I want to walk barefoot on a beach with a neglected five dollar bill tucked in the back pocket of my shorts. I want to wave my arms whenever I want, and wiggle my toes for no reason. 

I don’t want to be weighed down by the necessary, or the fantastical.

I want to be free.