My grandfather gave me his backpack that was probably older than my age,
A hand-me-down I graciously accepted for he asked for nothing in exchange.

'Keep your hands free when travelling, for then you can touch the world.', he justifies using a rucksack.
'If you do it right, the self you bring along will most likely not be the self you take back.'

I know not the roads it has travelled or the altitudes it has scaled,
I suddenly hear him talking again, my train of thoughts conveniently derailed.

'It has shells to show as souvenirs and leaves from wild terrains,
It has twigs from the bark of a forgotten tree and ticket stubs from rides in trains.'

It has been to places where new languages are spoken, languages I don't understand a word of.
The leather on it has worn off now from being constantly brushed against hardened rocks.

It hides sand from faraway beaches beneath the folds of its leathery husk.
It has weathered mighty storms and chased the deep violets of dusk.

It has travelled to deep corners of the world, in winter, summer, autumn and rain,
If experiences could be bottled up, how much of their essence could this bag truly contain?

I can only marvel at its escapades, the lessons, the newness, the joy it brings,
Is there a truth to what they say, could travel really be a tangible thing?

'Keep your hands free while you travel, my child.
Be free to climb and run and soar.
Let the directions of your adventures be decided by the compass of your soul.'