i wrote this cvg-atl

Sometimes I like to blame my having so much crap in my purse on my assignment as mother, or wife. But I think it is high time I’m honest with you, my purse, said crap, and… myself:

Dear Chopsticks,
Thank you for serving your purpose at the mall and after church last Tuesday for Trick or Treating and Wednesday for Trunk or Treat, respectively. You looked beautiful in Eva’s hair as well as in the vision of you in my hair at work, really, you did. Sorry that I never put you in, though.
But as I sit (a week since, then, mind you) on an airplane to Atlanta without a meal service, let alone sushi, rice, or anything of the Orient—I no longer have practical need for you.
I’ll take you all the way to Jacksonville and back home—we will adventure together. And when we arrive in our quaint little home, I’ll put you in your golden embroidered blue silk pouch until next time. Soon.
Thank you for your assistance, companionship, and faithfulness at the bottom of my purse, oft mistaken for a nonexistent pencil.

Dear Tampon,
You and your kind are lucky to be used, so, it is nothing personal. It is not your fault your cotton has been bleached and “enriched” with chemicals, it’s not. I hate to take it out on you—which, I think is why I keep you, tampon, there at the bottom of my leather bag, in case I’m not prepared (but thanks to the Clockworks, this is rare), or if another woman asks and I can help her by offering none other than you. But what woman desires something so neglected—yellow and white paper wrapping in shreds, no longer keeping anything sanitary; cotton embedded with crumbs and dried leaves crushed and ground to the finest pepper; scented with eau de moi, le scent du every jour, patchouli; infested with H1N1, I’m sure, off of lingering coins, handled by the tristate, if not the nation, escaped from my change purse—what woman?
I’m sorry, but thanks for your “just in case” orientation, I appreciate being equipped but… It’s not you, it’s me… We can’t go on in this manner, pretending that something is there when it is most definitely not.

Dear Ricola coughdrops:
Wow; I love you, I really do. I love you so much it scares me. I’m afraid one of us is going to get hurt in the end.
I love the way you feel behind my lips—the natural honey and lemon exploring every bit of my mouth, coating my throat with each swallow—I do, I really do. Or the way I can hold you at church and your earthy scent, so well-paired with my patchouli, wraps around my conversation bubbles, masking coffee, or more recently, sage, lavender, nettle, and chrysanthemum.
But what about my keeping you around well beyond the length of my feelings for you? Because I’m comfortable with our living situations, you in my purse and my purse at my side.
When your wrapper sticks to you when I grasp each end, what used to be a simple act of pulling in opposite directions, watching your slow unsheathing, becomes labored peeling wherein you’ve taken on a smoother, more gummy texture adhering to the demand of your clothes. I bet you kick your feet to sleep at night.
I’ll have one of you before coffee, spit you back in the wrapper to save and then lose either off the edge of my tray table or the seat of 16A. Good-bye dear friend.

Dear Receipts,
Yours is a labor of love, or mine for you, anyway. There is no disguising this relationship—I’m only in it for one thing. And that thing is habitually overlooked.
If you’re lucky you are, in a timely manner, filed at home in our kitchen drawer. If you’re unfortunate you crumple, soften, fade, turn color from heat in my change purse, or are in limbo between purse and filing on our kitchen counter top, stacked neatly, mind you, next to mortar and pestle and cactus. We’ll finish traveling together, I’ll doubtfully add more to you this trip but with high hopes I’ll take you home to store and calculate, and hypothesize and graph and assess.
But then, let’s be realistic… it’s been real.

Dear Rock,
Emily thinks you look like a petrified piece of bread and Eva can guess what you are without looking. But me… I’m sure that I can safely assume you were placed in my leather pouch by my little lady, though I’m not totally sure, nor do I know when or where we were.
I’m strengthened by your silent comfort in my purse. I’ll keep you for a while longer. I won’t stand on you, but I will carry you. In fact, tell your crag friends to join you, Rock, in my brown leather bag from Jerusalem.