Purse Of Life

It’s already late in the night when I started packing my backpack for an out-of-town trip. The usual clothes and toiletries, cellphone, camera and its extra batteries were the mainstays in my backpack every time I travel. And then my coin purse.

My coin purse and I shared a very long history together. It was given to me by someone I used to get closed with many years ago. While the coin purse since stayed with me, I haven’t heard of its giver for a long time now.

It has been my constant companion wherever I go. It stayed with me in the campsites, the cottages, pension houses, hotels, garage and anywhere I can spend a peaceful night. It’s been to cities and the country sides, mountains and seas, sidewalks and parks, crossroads and highways. Every single possession I have in my backpack may go but not my coin purse. There is too much history in it. Too many memories and countless stories.




An acquaintance once made a comment about my coin purse. The first time she saw it her eyes popped out. I was taking it out from my pocket to pay for our food when I saw her shocked expressions. It was not long after when she offered to buy me a new one. I said, no. I offered no explanations.

Once, a travel mate, who knows my attachment to my coin purse, and I talked about it. She said that I should get a bigger wallet because if this boat we are on would go down with us, there will be no way to identify my body if all I have with me is my old and torn coin purse. I smiled. She smiled, too. She know her words fell on deaf ears.

Like wine, the older it gets the finer it becomes. Friendships get stronger with time. Pieces of art become more valuable as they age. My coin purse is none of these. But its loosen fabrics and torn linings witnessed, like no other person does, how I spent my life.