My backpack died on Friday.

It had been getting old and rather frail, and near the end some of the edges started to fray. On my way to rehearsal on that fateful afternoon, it finally popped a strap, and I made a detour to K-Mart to purchase myself a new one.

Stuff is just stuff, but sometimes possessions take on new levels of meaning. When I was just a lad, I literally cried when I had to give up a toothbrush I particularly liked. I haven't returned to that level of misery, but I still find myself wearing shoes far past their prime because they begin to seem like a natural extension of myself.

I'm not saying I had an emotional breakdown over losing my backpack. But it had been with me for years, and traveled with me on many continents. For the peripatetic New Yorker, the backpack is both constant companion and trusted servant. We have no cars with trunks, and no quick jaunt home between stops. Like snails, we carry our lives with us on our backs. And my friend had served me well.

And so it was with a little hint of sadness marked by memory that I shoved the inert, floppy, empty bag into a trashcan and walked away from it without a glance backwards.

Here's to my new backpack, my new friend. May he serve me well.