My Mother’s Pocketbook
On the day she died,
I found her knock-off alligator bag
zippered and snapped.
Within, her wallet,
a wrinkled five dollar bill,
and some change,
a linen hanky reeking
of Jungle Gardenia,
a rain bonnet folded neatly
in its plastic sleeve,
two safety pins, for an imagined
emergency. And tucked away,
an amber bottle of Valium
just refilled, her full name and birth date
on its label, the childproof cap
insecurely fastened as if
she’d been in a rush
to calm her rattled nerves.
I held the vial up to the light
and shook it for the silence
that followed.