Inventory

In my bag, I carry a notebook, a tin of aspirin, reading glasses, a small shopping bag, a book of short stories, a well-stocked pencil case, as well as a wallet, a cellphone, and a keychain with an angel. I wear a watch, which I understand has become retro, and two bracelets. One is silver, a present from my friend Lee who took it off her own wrist and gifted it to me on the day we scattered her dog’s ashes in the ocean. The other is from Robert. He found it in a vintage clothing store for my birthday along with a paper hat. You can’t tell that the hat is paper, but I never wear it in the rain.

I’ve worn glasses for distance since sixth grade. My first pair were tortoiseshell and nerdy, but made seeing the leaves on trees and the blackboard in Mrs. Eaton’s class better. Mrs. Eaton never liked me. My mother said I wasn’t to wear the glasses unless it was absolutely necessary. So, for years, I did a lot of squinting on buses and subways, counting stops, and hoping not to miss mine. Now, I wear them all the time.

When I’m out with Baxter, I carry treats, plastic bags, a small flashlight, a ball, and bear spray in a pouch around my waist. We don’t have bears, but we do have coyotes. At night, you hear them howl, sometimes yip, and their puppies sound like odd birds. Coyotes have been known to attack dogs. I don’t trust them.

I carry my mother’s voice in my head, saying, “Look at the sunset…You’re wearing that?…Why didn’t you…?” and a hundred other things. I carry her even when I try to put her down. My father is quieter. I carry his half-smile and little shrug, and how whenever he gave his word, he did his best to keep it. I carry his voice telling me to have some fun.

I carry the fact that there will never be enough time for me to read all the books I want to read—probably not even the pile I already have. I really have to stop buying them.

I carry the moon shining through the skylight in my tiny bathroom, the heavy cold drip of fog, the way the wind rattles the gutters on my house and makes the redwoods bend, the smell of wet earth, and the slimy trail of slugs.

I carry fear for this country, planet, and the environment, horror for the wars, and the twitchy fingers of short-sighted, powerful men. I carry fury over racism, genocide, greed, the lack of rights for women and LGBTQ folks. I carry dismay at the banning of books and the propaganda machine of Fox News. I carry sadness for these times.

I carry regret for my mistakes, especially when they’ve impacted others, and the embarrassment of being 13, 19, all of my twenties, 40, and the stupid thing I did yesterday.

I carry my humor and funny bones in places easy to reach.

I carry my heart, sometimes in my hand, sometimes in the place it was made to be carried. I carry a longing for connection in my arms, which can make it difficult to reach out to connect. I carry the woes of my friends—not all of their woes but some—and the blessings of their friendships.

And I carry gratitude for being alive and getting to carry anything at all.