My name is as a bucket. It was empty when I got it, and I was blind to its true character. I didn’t know what it was made of, or the weight that it could hold. Its traits have become clearer as time has worn on.

It was made in England, which is where my dad is from. It reminds him of his home, which he dearly misses. His bucket is vibrant yet subdued, reminiscent of those colorful London streets, yet covered in a gray, grimy film of fog and clouds.

My name is as a bucket. As any object, it is judged. Some people look at my bucket and see planks of fine cedar and assume it has been carved with meticulous care. Some look and see its pristine steel bands, and assume that it has never been struck or scuffed. Some look at the knotted and warping wood, and assume that it must be falling apart. I wish to be free of the judgment others lay upon it.

My name is as a bucket. Sometimes, it is heavy. The more you fill it with, the more burdensome and shackling it can become. It can be filled with many things— expectations, purpose, meaning. Once, I filled it to the brim with perfectionism and expectations. A burden that crushed the breath from my chest, and the dreams from my sleep.

My name is as a bucket. Now, I take care not to overburden it. My bucket has held tremendous weight before— the kind that splinters warped wood, and breaks brittle steel. But through that weight, I found my bucket; the type of wood it was made of– whether rotten oak or fine cedar. I found where it leaked, where holes needed to be patched, and where it could be carried.

My name is as a bucket. My name is Connor. It’s a fine bucket, one that holds meaning and weight for me. I’ve found that the bands that encompass it are strong, flexible steel, capable of bending to accommodate immense pressure. I’ve discovered that it’s made of seasoned oak– a fine, strong wood, yet without any natural protection against termites or foul weather. I found the knots in the wood, the ones that lend it character and beauty if carved correctly.