Grief and Comfort

Lee Brice's "I Drive Your Truck" is probably my favorite song right now. The emotion in his voice coupled with the simple visuals in the lyrics give me chills every time I hear it. It also hits close to home for me. I don't have a truck but I do have a purse. A tacky, tacky purse that has been hanging in my closet since September 1995.

I'm pretty sure she got the purse at K-Mart. It doesn't matter, it fit her to a tee. I remember her always having a big purse. Sunflowers were her favorite. I'm glad this is the purse I have to remember her by. When she went in the hospital, she sent it home with me for safekeeping. I still have it but not her. Maybe I should have taken her home instead.

This purse is my anchor, my security blanket, my connection to Mother when I need her. There have been times I've taken it to bed, clutching it to my chest, seeking solace. The contents, though not much, bring so much comfort because they are her. The key to her handcuffs. Six different tubes of lipstick. Receipts from the credit union, one of them with the boxes I remember her doodling all my life.

Pictures of my sisters, forever 9 in the depths of the denim purse. An address book that has no area codes attached to the phone numbers. A scrap of paper with the specifications for a computer written in my brother in law's neat script. Worthless crap that would have been trashed as soon as she got the chance.