The Tale Of The Fuschia Bag
I have a fuschia bag. There's nothing special about it. It's a knock off Nine West from Tutuban but it carries certain memories. It was the last thing I bought with my first salary from my first serious job. It was also a symbol of the start of a turbulent friendship that would challenge my insanity. In a matter of less than three months, we've gone through the whole gamut of soap operatic situations. I've lost count of the second guesses I've done in regards to them. I've gone through dozens of cds and found each song "relatable"...
And now I go back to the bag. Its zipper had been threatening to go mental on me for quite some time now and even surrendered once or twice, but I've always managed to bring it back from the dark side. Last night, while I was celebrating the rediscovery of old friendships, the zipper finally gave up. I looked at the extent of the damage, made half-hearted attempts to fix it, but in the end I, too, gave up. The morning after, I realized what the broken bag meant to me: hastily formed friendships that went through tests before it was ready. The friendship wasn't a knock off like the bag, just haphazardly formed. The foundation, if there ever was any, was unclear so the slight bumps became road blocks...
I found a space between the edge of the bag's tab and the zipper's lock. I carefully tugged it to the edge and just as carefully pulled it down. The zipper closed and my bag was fixed. Maybe, just maybe, the friendship would be mended as my bag had been. After all, that bag has been thtough a lot in such a short time. Much like the people who bought it.
