The Handbag

I wrote this after attending a writing group. Asked to produce and write about an object that we hold with affection. I went home and wrote this piece as it evoked memories of my dear mother.

The Handbag   ‘ Objects of desire’   

 The handbag,  

 I can picture it now,

lying on the floor partly obscured by the armchair valance

or  parked behind her knitting basket;

wool and knitting needles spilling out onto the floor.

 The owner  was my dear mother,

 her attachment to the handbag obsessive, 

 yet affectionate

almost like the bond between two dear friends.

Wherever she went, the handbag went with her;

by her bedside, in her shopping trolley or visiting friends.

She had other ones of course; various sizes, shapes and colours 

 kept in her wardrobe for ‘special occasions’ ,

but this one had, for as long as I could remember, been  her favourite.

   It was mushroom-coloured with  a good length adjustable strap and easy twist- clip  fastener.

Time had taken its toll on the vinyl fabric and the exterior looked worn, creased and sad.

  The inside revealed a horde of antiquities, 

 a mixture of useful items together with bits-and-bobs of less obvious use.  

Among her keepsakes was a small photo of me sat on the couch with my wife and her first two grandchildren.

There was a bus pass, her parking badge

 ( she had never learned to drive but always let me display it whenever I took her out),

 a pink comb with some grey hairs snagged around the teeth,

 a mirror, a safety pin, a white hankie, a purse which contained some loose change  and  a   few    mints   ( she always said that sucking these helped her to keep her teeth in ).

 Tucked in a side pocket was an old biro

and some pieces of paper on which were scribbled a few names and phone numbers. 

 There  were no credit or bank cards...

she had been brought up in an age when a PIN meant something you stuck in a hat.

No technology for mum.

If she wanted cash then it was a walk to the Post Office on a Monday morning with pension book in hand  until she became too immobile and reluctantly had to let others  do  this for her.

  When mum passed away it was me who arranged her funeral

 and there perched  on top of the oak coffin , among all the  wreaths and floral tributes 

was the handbag, near her  in death just as it had been in life.

 

Author's Note

This was based on what I can recall . It's amazing how much an object we may have seen or possessed can mean so much and also bring back such memories.
Again, not strictly a poem, so if anyone can help me with genre, I'd appreciate it.

Reviews

[Mick Burke]

I really like this. My mother carries a handbag with a similar assortment of items, both ordinary and bizarre. You say that this is not strictly a poem and maybe it isn't (Who can say what is and what isn't a poem?) but that doesn't take anything from my enjoyment of the piece and the images it evokes.