It snapped neatly and abruptly like the slap of my patent-leather shoes on the sidewalk pavement. I used to walk a mile on Sunday to practice being grown-up, purse in hand, my shoes caw-cawing, making my mark on the cement. The pocketbook was mine to hold with its flattened, fake flowers shielded in plastic on the outside; on the inside a place for my lace hanky, silver dollars for collection, and a stick of Wrigley's from my mother. (For when my throat got parched watching everyone else drink grape juice in church.) At first I dreamed of growing older and communion, having my own high-heels, and carrying a big-girl purse; but after being perched on a pew, asked to confess my sins, I just want to stay seven. I want to grasp this little sacred vessel no other hands can hold and fill it with kind words to open.
©1996, 2019 KB
Do you have a sacred object you hold close? A place to hold your dreams?
Note: Photo is of my grandma’s purse.