Kombucha

51110

Again. Crying like a baby. Face shriveled up like a prune. Body contorted and piled up on the floor. This is the fourth day in a row now. But today tops the others.

It’s Mom’s purses.
All filled with her things.

Individually wrapped bags of Yogi Kombucha tea. Packages of hearing aid batteries; some rolling loose––little silver discs. The blue stickers that peel off the back of the hearing aid batteries––some with a plus symbol, some with a minus––stuck to purse linings. Travel size packages of Kleenex…
Pens. Pens. Pens.

Teachers always have pens. Lots of pens. Always prepared...

Tears spew.
More and more and––Oh!
What do we have here?
One small die (as in dice). White with black dots…

So many purses. So many pockets. Receipts. Scraps of paper. Notes. Her handwriting. Balled up gum wrappers. Loose pieces of gum. Bent up packages of Orbit. Business cards. Teal rubber wristbands. Loose coins. Paper clips…

The purses:
What do I do with all of them? Do I get rid of the ones I don’t like? Should I keep the ones that she really liked? Her favorites?

What do I do with all of my mother’s favorite things? I want to keep them all. Even the things I don’t like. I want to pack them away. Keep them in a safe place.

But I know she wouldn’t want me to…

But it’s up to me. They’re mine now. My memories.