My bag was yellow. His was blue. Mine opened with a drawstring, its secrets periodically spilling out on the pavement as I walked. His was a more sober satchel, tightly fastened. “Let me help you” he offered when he saw me struggling – “a load is easier when shared”.

I was unsure as I handed him my bag.

Unmindful of its fastening, he hoisted it on his shoulders. Its innards spilled across the path. I scuttled about his feet, gathering up precious possessions and stuffing my pockets until they bulged like those of a schoolboy, full of conkers.

When I had finished he smiled supportively, and handed me his satchel. My eyes flitted from his load to my own. Mine looked lighter. But his weighed on my shoulders in a different place.

New flesh takes time to break.

We paused at the crossroads. “I don”t know the way’, he said. Nor did I. He went in search of inspiration. I waited with the bags.

Night fell. I wept.

Hours later, I found the house silent and unoccupied. I knew that he had gone. I emptied my bag onto the bed, its contents scattering across unmade sheets and sleep-strewn pillows. Through the night I sat and guarded his satchel. When the sores on my shoulders healed, it became all I had by which to remember him. Days passed by in silent reflection until one bright morning, overwhelmed by curiosity and a desire to know him better, I opened his satchel.

It was full of rocks.