Handbag
by Ruth Fainlight
My mother's old leather handbag,
crowded with letters she carried
all through the war. The smell
of my mother's handbag: mints
and liptsick and Coty powder.
The look of those letters, softened
and worn at the edges, opened,
read, and refolded so often.
Letters from my father. Odour
of leather and powder, which ever
since then has meant womanliness,
and love, and anguish, and war.
there are generations of these in my keeping right now, going back to the american civil war, my mothers and fathers things, grand parents, great grand parents, great aunts photo collections, momentos and letters, jewlery, old toys, and diplomas, passports, handspun clothing, ancient crockery( no makers marks....),etc, etc
arrow points picked by my great uncle john, as he followed a horse drawn plow.....not much else to do back there right!
Random thought, but i've always considered poetry to be the literary medium that is the most difficult to do in a way that resonates with people. To pack so much emotion and meaning into such a limited format requires, to me, an unimaginably skilled grasp of language and emotion.
