Pockets

My first real job was at a neighborhood hardware store. My responsibilities consisted primarily of stocking shelves, mixing paint, cutting glass, screens, lengths of rope, chain, lamp cord, etc. and assisting customers with selecting the best pesticide for their garden. When I left at the end of the shift, my pockets were invariably filled with bric-a-brac I'd accumulated while working. Screws, bits of wood, and a box cutter or two.

I loved working at that hardware store but ultimately, I was destined for bigger, better things. I went away to college to earn a degree in education and started working in schools along the way. After I became a certified teacher, I left school each day with my pockets full of white board markers I'd forgotten to leave behind. Also, I carried with me notes I'd confiscated from kids, lesson plans scribbled out on index cards, paper clips, reams of sticky notes, and about four or five Bic pens.

Now that I'm a stay-at-home dad, I flop down at the end of the day on the couch and pull from my pockets hundreds of wadded tissues used to dab a runny nose or splattered sweet potatoes. Also, I have in my possession a small collection of things I've pulled out of Baby J's mouth over the course of the day, barrettes, hair ties, and the occasional Cheerio (they seem to wind up everywhere in the house these days).

When my grandfather died, I was given an old suit jacket of his. Suit jackets, in case you don't know, have a bajillion pockets sewn into them. Inside. Outside. Pockets within pockets. When I was given the jacket I immediately searched the multiplicity of pockets. My search yielded two ticket stubs to the opera and two passes to a Monet art exhibit from ten years back. Even though my grandfather had long been retired when he died, he too filled his pockets with the personal effects that speak to who he was.

Check your own pocket detritus some time. It might tell you a thing or two about who you are.