Because my mother loved pocketbooks
I come alive at the opening click or close of a metal clasp.
Victoria Redel renders a stunning tribute to her mother. It’s odd how certain objects breathe life into dormant memories. The days of women ensconced in their handbags, pocketbooks, purses is one I do not currently relate to, as I am no slave to fashion and its requirements. Yet, Redel’s poem nudges a few faded portraits of “going somewhere” because my mother had a “certain purse” draped on her arm. Outings had a sense of special due to the requirement apparel, such as a matching purse crooked upon the arm. I am still drawn to old handbags and their cousins whenever I browse thrift shops. I only hold a fondness, a remembrance; I have no desire to have one perch upon my arm. I am of the backbag age, the unique tote age, the “why-would-I-switch-everything-from-one-bag-to-another?” age. Still I do look, and still I do appreciate Redel’s own penchant and tribute.