In rich Italian coffee-brown, the backpack sat snug upon my shoulders.
The backpack upon the bed was the most welcome of sights, for it told of a new adventure afoot.
To the heart ready to travel, the backpack brings a frisson of joy.
The backpack hugged my body as if I were a shiny beetle ready to fly.
The backpack is the colour of bright yellow petals, the sort of yellow that gets brighter in the rays of the dayshine. It is a sort of bold, "Hello," something that is confident to glow in all weathers.
The backpack has broad shoulder straps that feel quite natural even with the weight added. With it I walk a little taller, feel the straightening of my back and my head rise a little higher. Somehow it is easy to carry, almost easier than having being free of it.
The backpack has that well-loved look, the canvas of spring flowers showing signs of being washed many times. It takes the form of my shoulder in the same way a friend's hand might, gentle and warm.
The backpack was my kangaroo pouch, albeit carried the other way around.