There once was a child with too many things—
a box full of buttons, a bird made of strings,
a hat that belonged to a father now gone,
a watch that still ticked but the hour was wrong.
She carried them all in a bag on her back,
each item a whisper, a worry, a crack.
No room for a coat, no space for a friend—
just memories packed without start, without end.
A pebble from rivers she never walked near,
a note with no sender, a name she held dear.
She lugged it through summers and staggered through snow,
refusing to leave what had once helped her grow.
One day she met someone who carried no sack.
He smiled and said, “You could put some things back.”
She frowned and said, “But these are my keeps.”
He nodded and asked, “And which ones still speak?”
She opened the bag and began to let go—
a feather, a fork, a torn shadow of woe.
Not all, but a few. Just enough to stand tall.
Her back learned to breathe, and she started to fall—
into walking, not dragging. Into days made of now.
The road felt like song. She forgot the old how.
She still kept a key and a small silver bell—
but she learned not all stories are hers to retell.