I always remember how as a child, I would always go out for an adventure. My true identity as a wanderer is what I believed it to be, a child’s simple curiosity is what they branded it as. I was nine when I went down to the riverbank and breathed in the fresh air for the first time as I watched my brother skip stones against the river’s seamless stream. Not much could be heard but the patter of the rocks and the very breath of my lungs in the morning dew. I remember picking up that one rock that my brother carelessly lay to the side and putting it in my pocket.
On the way home, I could hear my mom shouting our names. She always had to tell us to come on home before the sun would set, but I never minded for more adventures awaited in the house. Dungeons and dragons is what we called these games. There was never a damsel in distress, but a duel to the finish line, a prize of milk and fresh cookies. Forts were architecturally placed around walls of pillows and streamers of blankets. In the center lay a solitary flashlight to emphasize our voices when there were stories to share. I always put clips in my pocket, just in case the fort would fall. I was the repairman.
My grandpa was never the one to shy away from big puppy dog eyes and small grinning teeth. He was a sucker to the pretty pleases with extra sugar on top. Chocolate was never past his reach and always in his hand, but so were his complimentary hugs with each and reassuring pats on the back. The forehead kisses were sweeter than the candies itself and much more worth it. I was his grandchild, the one blanketed with warmth and love, compassion and dreams. I was a result of his love. I place the candy wrappers in my pocket for mother never enjoyed a litter bug.
Now, I slip my hand into my pocket. There is no candy wrapper, no smooth pebble, or handy clips. There is no anything but an empty pocket, completely and absolutely empty. It is cold and black and quiet yet readily available for the next smooth pebble or bright orange pick to strum a guitar and claim me as a musician. If I put my hands in my pocket there is nothing, yet there is everything left of the wanderer, of the repairman, of the grandchild. My pockets are empty; simply in lacking of something to make it full …for it is in the simple emptiness of my pockets where I can create my identity, for it is in the simple emptiness of my pockets where I can place my dreams. Emptiness doesn't always have to be just empty. Empty makes room available to be full.
I wrote this in my final year of high school. It was a prompt where we had to write about what was in our pockets. Mine were empty so I decided to make a lesson out of it. A lesson out of the beauty of an emptiness.