The thing was brown, old, and in desperate need of repair. It hadn't always started out that way. It used to have that new leather smell, and its buckles and buttons shined under the display light of the department store. It's coffee brown color complimented any stylish outfit with boots, and made a bold statement that heightened any occasion or event with its hefty price tag. The strap had first been worn out by being pulled from the hook on the back of the front door and then by the rusty and gaping maws of a subway car. Still, the handbag persevered and made it out slightly scathed to the other side. That was until two weeks later, when the strap had been torn in two pieces by a stray dog on 35th and Eastdale Drive, as its owner ran after the departing bus late for work. A few minutes of hysterical crying, foot stomping, and one trip to the craft store and some mending later reunited the handbag with a slightly off colored strap. It was dropped off at the Goodwill once the owner found a better paying job and better looking Prada handbag. It found a home with a quiet, grief stricken man who flirted with despair like it was his day job and not an accountant at Harrison Accounting Group. Everyday Mark would drive his eco-friendly Prius the thirty minutes from Crest Hill to Glendale, ride up the elevator with the flickering fluorescent light to the 38th floor, and sit at his slanted desk to hand in the reports to Janet at HR. The bag sat at his feet until lunch, where he would then take it down with him in the elevator, walk two blocks down, and sit at a bench on the sidewalk that looked out into the ocean and the cities stretching just beyond it. The brown bag was reflected in the water at his feet as he clutched it to his chest, wearing the brown eyes of his mother as he looked forlornly out to sea. After thirty minutes, he would get up, walk the two blocks back to Harrison, ride the elevator up to the 38th floor, and sit at his slanted desk to hand in the last reports to Jannet at HR. Then he went home and did it all again the next day. He would sit quietly like that every day of fall and then winter, the twinkling lights of the city and falling snow surrounding him. Every day through the falling leaves of autumn and the swirling snow of winter he sat on that bench overlooking the ocean. One day in late spring, he set the bag down and began to walk north. Near midnight in a bustling city that never slept, a teenage boy with a thin beanie and dirty jeans picked up the bag and searched its contents for treasure. Other than lint and two peppermints, was a yellow sticky note penciled with three words. The teenage boy read the note, sniffed, shrugged, crumpled it, and threw it aside and took the brown bag with him to sell. Somewhere on the sidewalk two blocks down where Harrison Accounting Group is, lies a crumpled sticky note with the words, "I'm sorry mom." The owner of Molly's Mysteries and Myths bought the bag for ten dollars, instead of twenty because the teenage boy had managed in the course of a day and a half to jam the side zipper that only opened halfway now. She marked it half off. It sold the next week to a grandmother with a wide eyed and toothy little girl with sticky fingers. The girl proudly took it home, showed it off to a tired mother and doting father, and proceeded to stuff it full of supplies for friendship bracelets, four silver spoons, and one beheaded Barbie doll. Armed with her purse, pirate stickers, and bravery she went on a mission into the woods to find the evil Professor Jellywatch and stop his tyrannical rule over the gummy bear citizens of Candy Castle Land. On the fifth day of battle, after throwing the purse over a tree trunk one too many times to shield herself from the Professor, one of the brass buttons on the front popped off and flew down the hill into the river. Its brother and some silver spoons were lost on the day of victory, after a celebratory throw into some thorny bushes popped it off with vigorous tugging from the victor. The toothy smiled girl held onto that purse for another six years until she reached middle school and got rid of it at a garage sale. Carlos bought it for four dollars and went to his first job interview in twenty two years in a suit two sizes too small, tattered messenger bag on his shoulder, and a small rosary wrapped around the tattoos of his neck. He got the job and every day except Sunday, he would take out the garbage and mop the floors of Harrison Accounting Group from 8pm to 1am. He would then board the last bus on 35th street, ride it for thirty minutes, and arrive to his studio apartment with the broken fence in Crest Hill. The following morning he would ride that same bus to go help out his sister at her weird store that smelled like mothballs and sharpie, with one too many legged lamps and crystals, his messenger bag safely tucked away under the front desk of the store. The janitor must have dozed off on the bus one late May evening, because when he startled awake at his stop with a look of fear in his eyes and a hand clutching at something under his belt loop his messenger bag was gone. She needed to score and maybe whatever she could find inside the thing had value and she could pawn it off and meet Jimmy on the corner of Maple, and then with whatever's left buy Jessica some McDonalds after school let out. Their meetups have been secret for a few months now, because Jessica didn't think her adoptive parents would react with the understanding and warmth she possessed for her mother. But her mother would not show up the next day after school, or the day after that, or the day after that. All she could do was sob into her best friend's shirt, their friendship bracelet glinting in the afternoon sun before being covered by clouds. The pawn owner bought the small cracked phone and silver spoon stuck with gum at the bottom of the pockets, but took one look at the faded brown bag and branded it junk. He went out back and tossed it into the dumpster. A man with dirty jeans and a hole covered beanie popped out of his hiding spot and ransacked the dumpster. He took a half a slice of pizza and the bag. It was traded for some earbuds and a zippo lighter the next day. The bag often traded hands. It was placed in desks, on cars, had coffee and paint spilled on it, and was stitched up and sewed together. It would be placed in storage then taken out, and had parts replaced and replaced again. For years and years. The final resting place of that thing that was old, brown, and in desperate need of repair was a landfill. The bag was no longer recognizable from its beginnings. Does the bag that was once new and smelled of leather still retain its identity after everything about it has been changed and replaced over time? What is the worth of a bag at the hands of the worth of a person? To be loved, is to be changed.