My Mother’s Purse

“It’s practical,” she said, not caring that I laughed.

I promised to buy her a prettier one,

but now I won’t have that chance.

My mother’s purse is in my house, and my mother is with God.

If I could spend another moment with her,

I’d wrap my arms around her and never let go.

But all I have are memories and pictures,

and of course, her black purse.

The awkward long strap now seems fitting,

the numerous pockets not a hassle anymore.

The crisp leather smell is pleasing, and reminds me of her.

I toss it into my car and go for a drive,

and I swear I can feel her with me.

My mother’s purse is in my house, and my mother is with God.

I love her very much, and will always miss her so.

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Rest in peace, Mom.