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Inside a bright morning classroom doorway, Backpack hangs on a wall hook beside the door, zipper slightly open showing pencils and a lunchbox. A child’s small hand reaches up, shoes clustered below, warm sunrise light slanting across the floor.
I am Backpack, hanging by the door each morning. Zippers buzz; shoes shuffle. I carry pencils, lunches, notes, and quiet worries. “I’ve got you,” I whisper to small hands. The day begins.
In the bustling mid-morning classroom, Backpack rests among a line of colorful packs on floor hooks under fluorescent lights. Its own straps sag as extra papers bulge out, while nearby snack wrappers and crumpled worksheets scatter across the tile.
Backpacks arrive light and heavy. Some bring snacks and smiles; some bring tired eyes. Teacher’s backpack grows as I catch forgotten papers, questions, and feelings. “Hold steady,” I tell my straps. We try.
Afternoon sunlight filters through classroom windows as Backpack sways gently on its hook, shadow stretching over a fallen book. Empty chairs face crooked, and a single page drifts near Backpack’s base, capturing the hush of wandering minds.
By afternoon, the weight shifts and bumps. A book slips; a sigh escapes. Chairs pause; minds wander. “Breathe with me,” I say, swaying softly. We gather dropped pieces, one by one.
Under soft late-afternoon light, Backpack now sits atop a freshly built wooden shelf at the back of the classroom. A smiling teacher stands nearby while two relaxed students place notebooks beside the shelf, leaving clear floor space and calmer air.
Then helpers roll in—shelves, time, listening ears. Instead of stuffing more inside, hands build places around us. “Share it here,” I invite. Teacher stands taller; students settle. The room feels lighter together.