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.