During my growing-up years, my mom was very open with me. Questions about our finances were answered in a straightforward manner. Conversations about boys were so easy and honest that my girlfriends were envious. (Often, if a friend called and found that I was not home, she’d end up talking to my mom about the opposite sex.)
The one thing that was closed off to me was Mom’s purse. It was always out in plain sight, but it was just understood that my hands did not belong in it. If I needed a dollar or wanted a Tic-Tac, Mom might ask me to bring the bag to her but I was never invited to help myself. In truth, I had little interest in rummaging through her purse; it was a mess! Receipts, coupons, an empty eyeglass case, gum and mints, pieces of mail and so much more were jammed into her bulging bag. Mom preferred small to medium sized purses with clasps but her propensity to use the container as a catch-all caused more than one broken fastener. Even the wallet within the purse overflowed! As nosy as I could be in other areas, I wasn’t the least bit tempted by her bag of stuff.
Many years later, at the age of 89, Mom passed away quite suddenly. Mercifully, she suffered little but I was sorely unprepared for the frantic phone call from my brother. When I traveled to her home, so much needed to be done and I had no idea where to start. I sat at her dining room table and there it was — her gaping pocketbook looking as lost and rudderless as I felt.
I didn’t touch the purse right away. After the funeral I grabbed the overfilled bag so I could look through it once I got home. Convincing myself that there could be important papers inside, I began the process of cleaning out the bag. Each item I touched turned me back into a little girl waiting to be scolded for going where I didn’t belong.
One of the first items I found in her wallet was a reminder card for an upcoming haircut. “How could she be gone if she was getting her hair done next week?” I wondered illogically. Another card showed she had a doctor’s appointment in just a few days. Mom loved going to the doctor! She’d put on her lipstick, dress up a bit and get ready to accept the compliments on how great she looked for her age and how active she was. How could she miss this appointment?
The purse had other information for me as well. A receipt from an auto shop with a familiar name caused me to call and find out why Mom’s car needed repairs. The owner was a neighbor who told me that Mom’s car had gotten into a few fender benders in the last couple of years. They were nothing major but together had made him wonder if she was having difficulty driving. Mom had told me of one of these “incidents” emphasizing that it was the other driver’s fault completely. Perhaps it was, but she’d kept me in the dark about the others, partly to keep me from worrying I’m sure, but also to not risk my suggesting she give up her license.
Several scorecards from Mom’s bowling league had a place in her purse. Mom belonged to a senior league; she had been bowling earlier on the same day she died. I once accompanied her to one of her weekly games; it was held in the back of a building and down a perilous flight of stairs. (I wondered aloud if it were a secret, perhaps illegal, organization!) The women on the team were kind but formidable as they whipped the balls down the lane and cheered each other on. Several teammates came to the service; certainly it was not the first time they’d had to say goodbye to one of their own. Their caring words and wistful looks caused me to give them my condolences.
Taking up the remaining space were receipts and bank statements, which I needed to begin unscrambling her finances; birthday cards that had taken up residence for six months and counting; and a tube of lipstick in a pretty pink — a shade I might have chosen for myself. I put it near my bathroom mirror.
The lipstick reminded me of something Mom had told me years earlier. When she was growing up, my grandmother insisted that her children kiss her goodbye whenever they left the house, even for the briefest of time. Grandma’s explanation for her rule: You never know if something might happen while you’re gone. While I found Grandma’s reasoning rather morbid, the ritual was passed down to us. My parents, brother and I kissed hello and good-bye and always before bedtime. And…something had happened while I was gone, living my life a hundred and twenty miles away.
Mom had left behind a purse with so many mementos of her life, including a lipstick for kisses good-bye. I used that lipstick each morning as I got ready for work, digging out the remains with a Q-tip when the tube could not be turned any further. It gave me the chance to carry on the ritual a day at a time while I became accustomed to the loss.
Gradually, the purse was emptied and important and salvageable items were put in their proper place. The purse itself did not survive; it had lived a full life, quite literally, a life that was useful and important and….sometimes messy, just like real life. Just like Mom’s life.