Twenty-five years later, I look through my mother's purse from a new perspective. |
Mother, here I am, although I never thought I'd find myself again a little girl in this, your private world. Remember how I used to try You on? With different purpose, now, I touch the gentle canvas of your purse, release the clasp, and find the Jergens still on top. Your lotion soothed me -- it was love and all your riches, freely given, formed a blanket on my skin. A little deeper, creamy mauve in slender casing always took my mind to Cupid's arrows, falling, working spells on men. I'd always hoped to riddle them, mysterious as you, but I was lucky just to bleed my shallow kisses on their sheets. Now, in finding wads of Kleenex stuffed in every crumpled corner, I find meaning -- strictly practical, I think. So much like me -- they dry the sorrow, clear the sickness, smudge the lines, my life a blur since Daddy woke me with his call. I can see a smile reflecting underneath your keys. Your wallet offers cover, flashing photographs that prove that I exist. I grip the vinyl, hand the nurse the plastic card, and pray they fight to keep you well. I catch a glimpse -- your mirror captures me and lifts me from the depths -- I see the girl you always knew, but through the eyes of one who's grown. I find a part of you in me, and with it, also find myself. |