My Mother's Purse
Jan 20 2015


My mother's purse --
which some would call a handbag
or pocketbook
but never her --
has always seemed bottomless,
with its many small compartments
partitions
darkened depths.

The unplumbed mysteries
of the fairer sex.
Which she lugs everywhere,
tipping slightly left
from the heft
of the big leather bag.

With a compact purse
for fancy events,
clutched against a formal dress
in her folded hand.
Essentials like lipstick, cigarettes
a spritz of scent,
fresh Kleenex
in case of emergency.
The ubiquitous tissue
every mother seems to have.

I'm afraid the fully-packed purse
is the affectation
of a generation that soon will pass,
like stiffly sprayed hair
fashionable hemlines.
Women today
carry tablets, and all-purpose phones
wear backpacks, and unisex clothes
but will never own
the indispensable bag.
Unlike the woman of a certain age
who would never be seen without.

I have never transgressed
the sanctum sanctorum
of my mother's purse,
never explored
its mysterious depths.
Its supple leather, well-worn strap.
Its brassy clasp
snapping shut.

Which will accompany her
to the very end
then be left to us,
her scent, lingering
the familiar things
she once touched.
Who will rummage through it
I can't be sure,
resting, on the bedside table
where she kept it
close at hand.

For the first time in her life
left behind.
And also the last.

The first thing I'm compelled to say is that my mother doesn't smoke, and pretty much never did. So I'll claim poetic licence for having sacrificed accuracy to an irresistible rhyme.

I'm not sure the tone of this poem is consistent, and so not really sure if it works. Because it starts off with a rather amused sentimentality, but then takes a somewhat morbid turn.

I usually record in these blurbs the often convoluted and mysterious process of thought that led me to a poem: getting it down before I forget. Because I find it's interesting, and sometimes instructive, for me to remember. And it often acts as a kind of diary of my days, as well as a record of my intellectual and interior life. Not to mention that I think it might bring the reader a little insight into the often bizarre workings of my mind! But here, I have absolutely no idea -- even though I write this having finished the final edit of the first draft. Was it just a big handbag suddenly appearing in my mind's eye? And then a reflection on that oddly inscrutable term, "pocketbook"?

Is the post-mortem handbag woman's work? Will it be left to one of my sisters-in-law to rummage through, to risk violating my mother's privacy? As I said, I have no idea. But I hope it will be a good long while before I find out.