I found myself this morning with an image of my past. My mother loved handkerchiefs. One of my last gifts to her was a set of pretty hankies. I chose one of them, after her death, to carry in my purse. I don't use it, but I am comforted in knowing it is there.
My mother said when I was around three, I was outside playing in my playsuit when I realized I had a pocket. I ran into the house, and came out with a hanky tucked inside my pocket.
We forget about hankies. Tissues abound. At Molly Stones, they even have sanitary wipes so you can wipe your shopping cart of germs before you touch it. I remember now, as a child, ironing my father's handkerchiefs. Times have certainly changed, and yet, we still need to cry, and, I hope we stil do.
I melt in sweetness today. I taste my mother's fudge. She placed the tests for soft balls in my mouth with her long, cool fingers. My younger brother loved to stand on a stool, and wash the fudge pan. I'm not sure where she got that turquoise pan, but she kept it until her death. I remember a pink kitchen when we lived in Florida. Yesterday, I bought some colorful ice cream bowls, soft colors. I need color to suckle right now, soft color, warm breath. I iron the years with tears, washed well.