It took most of the day to wade through my list of errands. Trying to amass the right clothes and shoes that are both comfortable and appropriate is a never ending exercise in futility for one who never learned to like shopping.
I came home and got back to My Mother's Last Purse, where the memory of her daily handling of this lowly little object seemed almost monumental in its significance.
It is green fabric, well worn, with velcro closures. Rustic. The kind an outdoorsman might stuff in his backpack. This is the wallet my mother carried. $22 in one dollar bills, 17 fives, a ten and 2 twenties, $100 traveler's check that will never be cashed.
Various i.d. with her photo and signature proving who she was, a poignant proof that she was here. In amongst some business cards for massage and acupuncture is a receipt from a favorite dim sum restaurant where she dined with one of us, in the midst of Life, celebrating nothing in particular, just weeks before hers ended. Of all the things, that is the one that moves me most. A reminder to do and be and tell and celebrate each and every day.