Creative Writing Exercise (in the style of The Things They Carried)

     I carried everything in a small backpack that I brought on board the plane. The backpack held a Macbook, a small sketchbook, pens, pencils, skittles, yarn, and a size D crochet hook. It also carried the ticket that would take me from Dallas to some airport in central California. She was waiting there for me. She had gone a month earlier to study watercolor from her grandfather. When she left, she cafrried a Macbook, a few pounds of yarn, and a felted squid named Limbs. She carried hooks and needles, and ambition. She carried a distaste for home, and she left me behind. We weren't together anymore, but I wanted us to be. She saw me more as family than anything. She carried loneliness unimaginable. She carried a fear of sirens, a love of poodles, and she carried schizophrenia. While she had been gone, I think she felt bad for me. You never know how insanity will express itself.
     Later at her grandparents' house, Poppi taught us watercolor painting. He gave us professional grade paints and paper, and a first-hand view of his process. He was a master. He told me that I was a natural.
     We were carrying our tables into the garage to let the paintings dry when he called me closer. He had cochlear implants to allow him to hear, but they were still being calibrated. He wanted to know more about me. He asked about my music, my plans for college, and I told him that I was planning to study music performance at Loyola University. He smiled and nodded approvingly.
"That's great," he said. "I know you'll do well. You're talented."
I thanked him politely.
     Then he said,
     "You know you and her are going to have to go your own ways eventually, right?"