just different.

As you may or may not know, I'm a girl who loves purses. Bags. All shapes and sizes, different colors for different ensembles. For all occasions. I'm all over it. I probably buy purses just about as often, if not sometimes more! (depending on the season), than shoes. Believe that!

There's always been something about a woman sifting through her purse that I have found I think, intriguing. Interesting. I have to watch it; if it's happening in front of me, I find I can't look away. What are they skrinkering around in there for? What will they come up with? My earliest memories of my infatuation with purse obsession go back to when I was a kid, sitting in church with my family or for school. I went to a Catholic grammar school up until 6th grade, uniforms! and knee socks all over the place. I remember going to church either during school, or on a weekend, and how excited I'd be for the collection time. Other than just for the good people watching in church, I would anxiously anticipate the collection because it meant for some good purse scenes going on, and that's what I loved.

I would watch as women, specifically I remember it being elderly women that I was really interested in, went through, shuffled around in the purse's inside hidden pockets. I was always so anxious to see what gem they might pull out in a quest to get to their money. A checkbook? Car keys? Red cakey lipstick? Maybe one of those rain, hair cap, things? You know the type, the ones that some older women wear when it's misty outside to cover up their just "set" hair? Anyway, this whole purse thing was a whole delight for me. It still is. It would offer me such a distraction. Make my imagination run wild wondering these women's stories. Take my mind away from another reading, or a song annoyingly sung by the choir, so out of tune. I loved this game.

Fittingly so, it's not surprising then, that almost 20 years later, I have this huge, strong, kind of freakish? affinity for purses and such. Having always been so interested in them, what you can fit in them, or hide, strategically, sneakily. This has been a long time thing for me. Admitting it is the first step, right?

*************************************

When I see my grandmother go through her purse, it's a different, not-wanting-to-look-away kind of feeling that occurs. Like back then, back in the church days when I was addicted to the whole purse scene, but now, different. Different because it's so close to home. I know this purse. Who it belongs to. It's story. It's no longer about imagining what this and that are for, where she lives and who she wakes up to every morning. It's what I already know about it all. What I know about her. Her story.

It's not a checkbook out of a red leather purse this time. It's not a set of keys from an embroidered clutch. Now it's a CVS receipt for a long list of prescriptions out of a Vera Bradley handbag. A grocery list to give to her daughter, since she's been a bit too weak lately to make it to the food store all on her own. It's several 'get well,' and 'thinking of you' cards that she's collected from the mailbox. Or a pretty scarf to wear on her head now that she's lost her hair.

It's a totally different set of items now. A completely different experience. Now, a not so fun at all type of feel to it all. This woman is no longer a stranger with no defined story, with a blank slate to life, with a story I can make up in my own mind and run with. It's a purse that represents so much more than just a silly handbag. It's a story, a life, of someone that I know and love.



It's a different feel now, this whole purse thing.

What I Remember

To me it seems like a lot of my childhood is a division of two parts. Pre and post divorce. My parents' that is. My memories from my youth are all very happy. Surrounded by a wonderful family, supportive parents, great childhood friends, and grandparents that spoiled me. To say that I had a great childhood would be an enormous understatement.

Although my parents divorced when I was six, I don't hold one single bad memory of their marriage. I don't hold any memories of it. Their marriage. At all. I cannot remember a time when the three of us were together, when they were actually married.

I don't remember anything, pre divorce. I remember the house we lived in, the three of us, and my friend who lived next door with a pool. I remember my childhood bedroom, and the cardboard ice cream stand that i would play in every day. I remember this little camera that I had that I thought was the coolest thing in the world. I remember what the house looked like, the rooms and a lot of how they were decorated.
But if you ask me to tell you my first memory of my family, together, the three of us, them married, us a traditional family, I could not do it. And that sometimes makes me sad.

Post divorce, many memories are very vivid. I remember my mom living with my grandparents shortly after it happened. I remember her and I sharing a bedroom, each of us in twin beds. I remember my dad moving to a new house. Wednesday nights with him, early Thursday mornings driving back to my mother's. Weeks shared, divided, back and forth, to each house. Car rides with my dad, to my mom's. Friday and Saturday nights at my dad's, driving to my mom's at 12pm on the dot each Sunday. Shared holidays. Christmas Eve's at my dad's, late Christmas morning going to my mom's. Thanksgiving one year at my mom's, the next with my dad.

I remember specific times with each parent, post divorce. I remember one Easter, taking a walk with my mom. I was in new patent leather shoes and an Easter hat. She was in a dress; I'm pretty sure. I remember that day, in my grandparent's neighborhood. I can feel the spring weather on my skin right now, the breeze in my hair. I can smell the grass, and see the pavement with the many cracks that I tried to avoid. I remember taking that walk together, my mom and I, before it was time to go to my dad's for the remainder of the holiday. All of this is so very vivid.

With my dad, I remember a specific time of us driving in the car, and O was upset, at something. Probably something silly and little, but that seemed like the hugest deal to the ten year old me. Life is a Highway was my favorite song at the time, and I remember that song coming on the radio and my dad trying to cheer me up, raising the volume and saying, "it's your favorite song!" I remember being angry. Not caring, or eat least trying to seem like I didn't. And getting teary. I remember trying to not enjoy the song because I was trying to appear angry with him, but wanting to sing anyway.

The pre divorce years, and how I cannot remember them, makes me sad when I really think about it. I try and try to just remember, just a spec of an ounce of something with the three of us, pre divorce. Us three at dinner, a holiday together, a car ride. Try as I might, I just can't seem to get a visual. I can totally imagine, conjure up an image in my mind of what it must have been like. But the real thing, I just can't place it. Freudians would eat this up. Analyze how I must have had some awful childhood, that I'm trying to repress something. That my id, ego, and superego are working to help me rationalize something. Protect me.

But that couldn't be further from the truth. It was never bad. Not at all, in any way. I don't remember any fighting, no yelling, no arguments. I don't remember any tears, no bad times at all. I don't remember much of anything. Pre divorce.

Post divorce I remember so much. The smell in my dad's new house. My mom's new apartment after she moved out of her parent's house. How when I was younger, right after the divorce, my dad would lay out an outfit for me on a Thursday morning. socks, underwear, pants, and a shirt. I'd put these clothes on, eat some breakfast, and we'd go to my mom's. I remember getting there, and finding an outfit. Laid out. On my bed, for me. From my mom. The same thing. Socks. Underwear. Pants. And a shirt.

I remember wearing two pairs of underwear to school because I felt guilty not. To choose just one pair, would be to pick between my dad and mom. And how could I possibly choose, between the two? I couldn't. I wouldn't and I didn't.

Soon after, i didn't have to. I imagine I must have told my mom one time about how I did this, the underwear thing. And I imagine she must have had a talk with my dad, because thereafter, the double outfit thing was no longer an issue. I will always remember this. My mom and I joke about it to this day, yet thinking about it sometimes makes me sad. Of me as a little girl, not wanting to choose.

I still don't want to choose. Now I don't have to. I am an adult now. My father lives on the West Coast, my mom here in the same state as me. Holidays are no longer split between two parents. No more running around, back and forth, car rides to and from their houses on the same day. No more choosing who I will stay with for Christmas Eve. No more leaving a holiday dinner early to go to the other families house. I am who I am today because of my childhood. I don't look back with any regrets. I had a great childhood, and if the tone of this seems melancholy that's not all it should be. I feel sad for the memories that I cannot produce, but I feel utterly filled with appreciation for the ones I have. I would not change a thing of my childhood if I could. I have an amazing relationship with both of my parents, which I believe is somewhat directly related to the individual time I was afforded with both of them given the circumstances.

I have a picture in a safe place. It's of my mom and my dad on their wedding day. I am wearing a diamond necklace today. It was given to me by my mom two Christmas' ago. It is a gorgeous piece of jewelry. But it's so much more than just that. The necklace was made from the diamond that my father gave to my mother when he proposed to her. Her engagement ring. Something that they shared, just the two of them, is now mine. This is one of the most treasured things I own. So special to me and so meaningful. a little piece of both of them that I can always carry around with me.

speechless, at the right time

I remember when you first told me you loved me. We were in your car, we had just gotten back to your house and we both had our seats back. Some song was playing, I can't remember what. We were holding hands. As I leaned over to kiss you, hug you, touch your face, I remember us laughing that the damn e brake got in the way. It was quiet for a minute, and that's when it happened. You had me in your arms and you said it. That you were in love with me.

How long is too long, to sit with the silence, before it seems awkward that one hasn't responded to a first "I love you?" Ten seconds? Thirty? It wasn't as if I didn't hear you. I did, you knew that as I looked up at you and kissed you, squeezed you tighter, breathed you into me more.

I did feel it then, but too many seconds had passed and I felt like the moment had gone. Too late to say it. It slipped into the heater vents as I deeply exhaled it out. But no words came. I could have said it. At any time, really. When we went back inside and cozied up on the couch with each other and a movie; I could have said it then, I just didn't. Not because I didn't feel it. I did. I let the moment pass me by. That moment, when I should have said it, was gone.

But then? As I'm writing this now, I feel like that was a cop out. I must have not said it fora good reason. I also think, when you love someone, you should tell them, right then, right there, in the moment. Given the moment is appropriate and all. No amount of seconds or minutes or hours that pass should equal the time frame of a missed chance. I felt it, but I just didn't say it. I don't know if what I'm feeling is described as regret.

I remember though, feeling it, earlier that weekend. We were at the mall and I had dragged you into girly accessory stores, and you didn't complain, not a bit. At least not that I remember now. You were adorable the way you were, with me, that day. I just wanted to eat you up. I remember it was crowded and after a while, we both just needed out of the place. We couldn't find we where parked, looked on every floor, not remembering where we had been just a couple hours earlier. This made us laugh. We said "screw it" and decided to go get something to eat and have some beers and figure it all out after. And we did, and I remember our way of walking to the car, finally finding it, me giggling, tipsy and warmer from the alcohol. It was cold that day and you took my hand and we headed for no direction really, to look for your car, somewhere. I remember, then, at that moment, was when I started to feel it. It was at that moment. It came over me in a huge wave and I remember thinking, God, I am in love this guy. I hadn't felt that, well, ever. Not like that, so sure of it. Not before you.

When we finally found the car, there was traffic, tons of it, getting out of the garage. And I was flustered and hot. And some song, I don't remember what now, was on the radio. I remember us turning it up, and we blasted that sucker. You opened the windows, all of them including the sunroof, and we blared that rap shit, and I wore your hat. We were both laughing, hysterically really. It was at that moment, that I wanted to say it. Scream it. Over the music I wanted to scream out, "I love you!!" And I didn't. Although the timing seemed so right, something held me back.

And something held me back that night in the car. In one instance the timing didn't feel totally right, the other couldn't have been more perfect. In neither situation did I have the nerve to say it.

All along though, I felt it. Maybe I should have said it, in those times. For the first time, then, that night back to you, or the next day to you, first. I didn't.

And I don't really know what all this means. I know what I feel; I just couldn't seem to get it out.

these thoughts are not foolish

In this one you are contemplating something. You have to be, right? Your eyes are telling a story here. I just don't know what the theme is, exactly. I can't pinpoint it. I am sure that you are happy though; I can sense that. You look very comfortable, and content. Your body language is saying that you are at ease. You are sitting beside your best friend. Your eyes in this picture... you look like you've got a story to tell. What is it?

I wish I was there when this picture was taken. What were you doing at the time it was taken, or right before? You aren't flashing a full smile, but you look so happy. And pretty. Do you know that you have that capability? To just sit there, and maybe without noticing that a picture is being taken of you, or without a big grin even, you look remarkably beautiful, just being there?

Your eyes tell a story and I wonder what it is. I can sense all that I have mentioned, but I have so many questions, still. Where was this taken? Who took it? I think that I own that same exact jacket, another similarity we share among a thousand others. Where did you get it? How did you feel when that picture was taken?

You mailed this picture to me. In the real mail, with a letter you had handwritten me. Since then, I've seen many other pictures of you. It is this picture though, my friend, that sticks out in my mind. When I think of you, this is the image that comes to my mind. It is the first picture I ever saw of you. It's what I "picture," when I get a letter from you in the mail, an email, a text message, or a phone call.

There's a saying, "a picture is worth a thousand words." Well this picture is no exception. Seeing this picture, after corresponding with you for several months, gave me such a good feeling inside. I can't even really describe it in the words that would be able to capture the emotion that I feel when I look at it. When I first saw that picture, I could tell that you were kind, and warm. Happy and intelligent. Fashion savvy and confident. Humorous and easygoing. Content and at ease. You seemed, back then, like someone I would be friends with, in real life. We started out as penpals, but I honestly believe we have developed a friendship that will last a lifetime. Although we have never met in real life, I wait in eager anticipation for that day. We will have the best time together. I just know this. I can tell, based on that one picture of you. We were destined to be friends.

I got lost in the sounds I hear in my mind

It's been almost a year since you and him broke up. Since the last straw, the final end. You made that end decision quickly, at least that's what it seemed like. You came home that day, walked in and sat on the couch, with tears coming down your face. You didn't need to say the words, I just knew. You told me that you couldn't do it anymore. You were crying, and I put my arms around you, and you put your head on my shoulder. I didn't know what to say. I knew, with my whole heart that you had made the right decision, but I could see the pain that you felt. I could feel it on you, on me while I held you. I just wanted to take all of that pain away, make it be all over. I couldn't do it.

You tried to smile and said that you thought you had made the right decision. You talked about how hard it was, to tell him that it was over. You had been through so much in just these past several months. You said it felt like a lifetime.

A few months later, you would tell me how you still thought of him. How it was the hardest decision you ever had to make, to leave him. That you left him, still in love. You would tell me how you still thought of him, all of the time. Still felt him there with you in the middle of the night. Craved his touch, his smell. How things didn't seem to be getting any better. Not at all. You asked me if I thought you would ever be able to fully get over him. I told you that it would take some time, that I was always there for you. You apologized for feeling like a downer. For still talking about him, over beers and soft lighting, months later. You said you were embarrassed because you should be over him by now. But that you didn't know how to do it.

I remember that afternoon, in Barnes and Noble, when you told me you thought the guy drinking his coffee in the corner was attractive. And I felt so happy for you. You said it was the first time you felt something, for someone else. You actually got excited about this guy. When he asked for your number, you looked so pretty, graciously giving it to him, sweeping your long hair behind you ear.

At times like these, it began to seem like you were doing better. I told you this, how much happier you seemed now. After several martinis one night, we were in the kitchen, making scrambled eggs. Your eyes filled up. You confessed that you were trying with all of your heart to put up the strength that we all saw. You said how much you still missed him, how hard it still continued to be. You said your heart still ached.

I wanted so badly to make everything all better for you. I could feel your pain again, that night, and I remember how frustrated I was with myself because I didn't know how to make it all better for you. You hurting, it was so awful for me to see you go through. You didn't deserve it.

And here we are; it's been several months since the eggs and tears. It's been almost a year since the end and the couch that afternoon you came home and told me. You haven't dated much since then. You seem happier now. I check in now and then with you, to see how you're doing, about him. You say you don't think of him much anymore. But that you are getting nervous for the upcoming holiday, and the one after that. Most of us hope that part of your life is way in the past by now, that it doesn't cross your mind anymore. Because you seem interested in other people, other things. You don't mention anymore how that song reminds you of him, how your bed seems so big, how you miss his presence, and his hands. You always told me how you missed his hands.

What you went through was really shitty. But you have grown so much. You are a stronger person from what you went through. I know that you don't always see it. You brush it off. It's what you do. But I know you. And I know how much he meant to you. And it's okay to still think about him. It's okay to dream about him, and wonder. It's normal, and it's okay. He was your first true love.

It doesn't go away that easily.