It came to rest at my feet one afternoon, during what they sometimes call a blustery day. It was a brown paper bag, lunch-sized and worn, but surprisingly not too torn. I reached down to deposit it in the nearby trash receptacle, when I noticed the faded writing on its surface:
Johnny Bag is my name. I have had many a long and hard travels. You can tell by looking at my skin. I am already very old, seven years at the time this was written, and with the average bag life being much shorter than that, I am quite ancient by bag time. I was a very nice bag at one time, and I once held a child's lunch within me. I was happy then but no longer; I'm afraid I've become a grumpy thing, not caring much for anything, lazy and drifting with the wind. I once had aspirations to live in a museum or get myself in the Guinness Book of Records for being the oldest living bag.
These words were printed on my skin so that you may know a little of the life of a bag. So the next time you see a bag blowing down the street, stop and think.
I knew the words I read were composed by a paperbag writer. I tossed the old sack into the can. As I walked away a strong breeze blew through the empty parking lot. I turned and witnessed the old bag catch the wind and sail away, up and out of the trash and into the air, going who knows where. I stopped and thought.