Mother collected bags. The wardrobe
bulged, door barely shut, a cascade
of straps and buckles, fabric and leather
My history, she’d say, is written in these bags.
There was a pink satin bag with pretty bows.
Aunt Bertha’s gift when I started ballet, reminding
me she had danced once in front of the queen
at primary school, she said.
The red leather bag matched the red leather coat,
an act of defiance at seventeen, her first job.
My money, she declared. I can spend it
how I like. It’s fashion Mum. Get with it.
She kept the black clutch bag her father bought
to go with her little black dress, the one she wore
for countless interviews and business functions,
and formal dinners when she was broke.
She smiled at the printed linen shoulder bag,
her first day teaching, her birth sign Leo – a summer child –
in royal purple, Christened Cleo by adoring students,
her flashing eyes and jet-black hair.
The white shiny patent leather she bought
for her daughter’s wedding. To match
my new wedding shoes. Expensive,
but daughters only get married once.
She never used it after the divorce,
felt it had lost its way, as if the bag was to blame
not the floozie down the road. I never liked him,
she’d say. Too clever by half.
In the corner, an old, battered school bag,
heavy creased leather, big enough to take
thirty exercise books and her prized Rolo pencil case,
a student’s gift.
She treasured the woven shopping bag from Marrakesh,
always a trace of sand, a smell of camels, deserts.
Each time she looked at it, a glaze covered her eyes,
a memory she wouldn’t share.
Keep writing 