Just a Backpack
Yesterday, I was out in our garage working out. I am a runner by nature, and since I like a challenge, I have been focusing on weight training the last few months. It’s been hard but rewarding. So, I’m out in the garage lifting and decide that in between sets it would be a good idea to straighten up a little bit. We just finished a big kitchen renovation and recently cleaned out of the kid’s playroom. Needless to say, the garage is packed. Stacks of extra tiles, unused grout, old toys and that wooden Ikea cart that we have since we first got married are sprawled around our home gym. Everything needs to be organized and piled into keep, save, and donate. After a set of 12 dumbbell squats, I shake my legs a bit and look around at the piles of things to be conquered. It’s overwhelming where to begin. I look over at the large shelf by the door leading inside, “Might as well, start here.” On the top shelf I can see an old blow-up kids pool we’ve used maybe twice, a gray backpack, and our canning equipment. I don’t recognize the backpack, and so standing on my tiptoes, grab that first.
The outside is a nondescript gray with black zippers. It’s not heavy as I pull it down from the shelf. “Probably filled with old clothes or something.” I think as I kneel down on the gym mat and unzip the main pocket. The backpack is filled with fabric, but they are not pieces of clothing our kids have outgrown. As a rummage through the contents, I pull out a neatly folded flag. I open it, confused and then comprehension fills me. The flag is covered with illustrations of bombs, RPGs and other tools of war. My brain flits back to a conversation we had after one of your combat deployments. You said it was used to educate locals on what types of weapons the enemy would use. My fingers trace the outlines of the drawings. For a moment I don’t move. I can’t. Then I refold the flag, making sure to crease the fabric exactly as it was before I disturbed its sleep.
At the bottom of the backpack lies another flag. It is folded into a white square. Even before I touch it, I know what it is, what it will look at when it’s laid out. Gingerly, I pull the fabric out and unfold the piece of cloth. It is a white flag, with the long slanting writing found in the part of the world you spent so much time in. I remember when I first saw you unpack this flag years ago from one of your dusty bags after you returned from another combat rotation.
“We took it from a village we overtook and cleared.” you explained nonchalantly, as I stared at the piece of fabric in disgust and fear, as if it was a grenade about to explode.
“I don’t want it in the house.” I said, looking away, not wanting to give the flag anymore of my attention.
“I thought we could put it in our garage gym one day.” you said, shaking out the fabric, and looking down at the black writing. “I’ll hung it upside down right by the squat bar.”
“We don’t have a gym or a garage.” I snap back, looking around at our apartment. “And I don’t want to see it hung up in here.” my body is tense and the once sweet moment of helping you unpack from a work trip has been replaced by the reality that we are reviewing spoils of war.
“But babe, I” you start.
“Please.” I interrupt you, and I can hear my voice shake for a moment, “I don’t want to see it. Ok?”
“Ok.” and your voice is slow and smooth, I can tell you are trying to calm down whatever scared animal the flag brought out of me. “I’ll put it away.” you assure me, refolding the flag and stowing it in an inner pocket of your giant duffle.
Years later and I am back in our home gym, the flag of your enemy spread out on the ground before me. The symbol of everything that tried to take you from me time and time again. I stare at the colors, the black script parading across the white ground. It’s just a flag, a piece of fabric. Yet my body, which felt so powerful and strong moments ago is now turning inwards, protecting herself from everything that could have been. Slowly, I refold the flag and place it carefully back into a nondescript grey backpack. I throw it, on top of the highest shelf, and listen as it slides back out of sight behind the giant pots of pans.
I turn my back on the shelf, on the backpack, on every possible outcome could have taken you away from us and pick up the weights to finish my workout.
I’ll clean the garage another day.