My Mother's Purse

Recently, writing this blog has reminded me of my mother's purse. It's black patent leather with a broken handle. My sister found it when she was cleaning out my father's house after he died. It turns out he had kept all of her personal items in a closet, from clothes to jewelry, after she died when I was nine and my sister was four. She was 43. My dad was 37. He out lived her by 35 years.

My sister thought I would want one of her personal items. She kept a few things. the rest she discarded.

Inside the purse was a dried out lipstick and a compact with powder that had turned to cake. There was a handwritten note from my Aunt Marcile, concerned that her sister seemed angry about something but she didn't know why. There was also a cardboard card the size of a cigarette pack that listed her chemotherapy schedule at Billings Hospital.

The discontinuity of my mother's death is linked with the day of my grandfather's funeral two years before. I was sitting with the adults and they were talking about something I could not understand. I felt compelled to contribute to warrant my inclusion. I looked at my Uncle Joe and proclaimed him the next to die. It was perfectly logical to me as he was the oldest with the passing of my grandfather. As a student of chronology I knew this to be certain. To this day I remember every event in a straight line of causation. I know every one's age at specific life events and birthday. I identify the alphabetical sequence of letters always by starting with the letter A. As plain as that, it was undoubtedly going to be my Uncle Joe's turn to die. I was proud to show my mature understanding of the ways of the world.

The look on my mother's face showed I had broken some ineffable taboo. She scolded me, so I sat silent, confused about the rules of adults.

My Uncle Joe died 43 years after that conversation. Despite decades of alcohol and tobacco abuse he outlived my mother, my father and his other siblings by 44, 16 and 15 years respectively.

Hamilton's illness has revealed the futility of my reliance on chronology. We have had Hamilton for only four years. I expected to have many more years of adventures with him. There have been many events and incidents that I intended to portray in this blog. Until we discovered he was ill I had only covered the first year or so of our time together.

Here are some of the stories I have yet to cover:

* The death of Hamilton's nemesis, our pet cat Gus;

* The adoption of our two new cats Julio and Pitch;

* My accidentally calling the fire department when I thought Hamilton had stepped on an electrified hot spot, resulting in five fire engines arriving on the scene;

* The bar that has become Hamilton's local.

There are many other tales I wish to share. But it has been difficult to maintain a regular schedule with Hamilton's illness even though it has imposed a new, more urgent narrative to my story. I struggle with the reliving of yesterdays with the imperativeness of today. Maybe if I retrieve my mother's purse from the attic it would help.