Today is a tough Mother’s Day. I thought I would be posting a picture of my Mom and saying again how much she is missed. She is. Instead, I am stuck on her purse.
A woman’s purse is a deeply personal possession, often an unintentional extension of herself. Very early in life, a purse constitutes a major accomplishment, a cherished marker that we are a “big girl, just like Mommy”. From then on, the purse goes virtually everywhere with us. We 
don’t share it. It’s completely ours. Anyone who messes with it is either a creep or a criminal.
On the outside, a purse conveys something about our personality; our practicality, boldness, glamour, whimsy or minimalism. A purse allows us to change this messaging from one day to the next if we want. A purse can broadcast what we are headed to do. I mean, most of us don’t take a Judith Leiber clutch to the hardware store. Inside, our purse carries the things we need most every day or in a pinch. There is mommy stuff like barrettes and band aids, beauty essentials like blush and cover-up, and our most universal proofs of existence like our driver’s license and pictures of our kids. These usually planful yet sometimes random items reflect our preferences, activities, age, health, and stage in life.
I remember the first purse I bought with my own money. I was 11. Mom had given me permission to take the bus with some friends to Wieboldt’s department store in Evanston. This was a big deal and I was so excited. I got mugged in the first floor bathroom by 8 scary girls who wanted my new purse (or the money they thought I had in it). I’d be damned if they were going to take it. Much to my parents’ later horror, I wrapped the purse strap around my arm and fought, kicked, hit, and screamed until the girls ran off. My arm was pretty bruised and I lost my independent shopping privileges but I had my purse.
I’ve had other beloved purses but I’ve never thought much about how truly personal a purse is until now.
Over the past few days since Mom died, I have begun to go through what the medical establishment calls “your mother’s personal effects” but we call her stuff. I’ve sorted through and discarded or donated a CVS worth of medication and unused healthcare items. I’ve read and organized cards and letters of well-wishes from her multitude of friends. I’ve recycled the magazines, museum and club newsletters, and the lists of things to do from January. I’ve browsed photo albums for the pictures and memories that will create a window to her life story at the reception. I’ve begun to inventory and determine where to send her clothes, the soft cotton turtlenecks and brightly colored scarves that defined her daily fashion.
Mom’s love of Native American culture, nature, and world travel, her accomplishments and curiosity, and her contributions and deep connections to meaningful people and endeavors are everywhere amongst these things. Much of the real decisions and work will wait until Steph and Chris get here and until we have more time in June. Understandably Daddy doesn’t want to change too much too soon. It’s a multi-layered process getting a sense of what lies ahead by going through what she left behind.
Yesterday I selected what Mom will wear on her last journey, including a favorite everyday necklace and sun earrings that she wore so frequently the gold coating is almost gone. I’m instructed to provide the funeral home with her favorite make up. There are a lot of choices in the bathroom, most of which haven’t been used in a long time. Where do you find a girl’s go-to lipstick? In her purse, of course, where it would be with her whenever she needs it.
After everything I have examined and judged, and all of the indignities of serious illness and dying, I am daunted by Mom’s purse. Going through it seems like a gross violation of her privacy, an invasion of sanctified space. I feel sneaky burrowing into its contents without her there to tell me what I am looking for (like when I took $5 without telling her in 1972). “The comb is in the inside left zipper pocket, Kathy,” Mom says in my head. It’s 8-year old me and 54-year old me sitting on the living room floor staring down the purse. You’d think the personal nature of your Mom’s purse would pale compared to the intimacy of her suffering, but it doesn’t.
Mom toyed with leather and straw purses but her favorite were quilted Vera Bradley. The bigger and bolder the flower patterns the better. She loved flowers and had them everywhere. She also liked to carry everything but the kitchen sink in her purse so capacity mattered. I often thought that if I got mugged again but with Mom, her purse would be the weapon of choice. In recent years, Mom couldn’t carry her purse so getting it from place to place with her became a family matter. Mostly Daddy, but sometimes one grandchild or another lugged the purse from the car into the restaurant, theater, doctor’s office or hospital.
The most important item to me in Mom’s purse when I was growing up was the Butter Rum Lifesavers. Next came Wint-O-Green mints and Necco Wafers. They kept me from the brink of boredom on long car rides or standing by Mom’s side waiting for her to stop chatting with the neighbor we’d run into at the Jewel. I daresay they got me through a sermon or two at church and the visits to Mrs. Podgorsky’s, the toothless woman who did our ironing but who needed companionship as much as the money. I observed Mom being a good friend, citizen, and human in many circumstances while sucking on Lifesavers from her purse.
The candies have long been replaced by Hall’s cough drops and diabetes paraphernalia. Her ubiquitous bottle of water sits nestled between her Kindle and sunglasses. She carried water everywhere. Me, too. Mom’s lipstick, powder and eyebrow pencil are in a baggie. Ziplock baggies were Mom’s solution to all organization. Mine, too. I’ve noticed similarities in many of our habits over the years. Sometimes I find this humorous, sometimes disquieting. This is all disquieting. The little Carmex jar is almost empty. The last thing I did for Mom before I kissed her goodbye to go to the airport last time was put some Carmex on her lips. I was sure I would see her again.
Daddy suggests I empty Mom’s purse and make sure the credit cards and keys are in a safe place on his desk. I can’t do it today of all days, Mother’s Day. I feel like it would be stripping Mom of her last vestige of control, the last practical thing that was wholly and only hers. I think she deserves to have it stay that way a little longer. I have retrieved the things I need for now. Besides, the table by the window in the living room will look terribly empty without it.