He set her purse on the polished oak table,
the wooden chair creaked as he sat down,
it had been a long day.
My sisters, brothers and I sat with him,
expectantly we looked at him,
she was the one we always looked to.
Instead, our eyes drifted to the purse
as though it would comfort us.
He lifted the flap slowly, sighing,
looking up he said,
"I've never been in your Mother's purse."
Opening it up pulling out her wallet,
reverently he held it in his hands
warming it, feeling the leather
with his fingers.
We were quiet as he pulled out
old pictures of each of us
with toothless grins,
our former younger selves.
Notes in her handwriting passed
from hand to hand,
each of us leaving a tear
on the paper.
A floral cotton handkerchief each
of us inhaled her scent,
bringing a part of her alive.
Her private belongings rested on the table,
her whole life to us.