AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Pockets DATE: 10/03/2005 05:19:00 PM ----- BODY:

I'm forever trying -- and failing -- to streamline the contents of my handbag. I start off with keys, a wallet, some lip gloss and pack of gum, and in no time at all, wind up with all of the above plus six or seven business cards, tissues, hair barrettes, Matchbox cars, half-eaten granola bars, rubber bouncy balls, receipts, Post-It notes, grocery coupons, recipes torn from magazines, and pretty much any and everything that no other member of my family wants to part with or be stuck carrying. Scrabbling around in my bag o' wonders at a checkout line one afternoon, I was horrified to pull out a gnawed bagel half, hard as cement. Where had that come from -- and how long had it been hiding in there? And why was there a red plastic spoon keeping it company? I wasn't confused in the slightest by the handful of gravel rattling around at the bottom of the bag. My daughters collect rocks that look like dinosaur eggs. Well, four year-old Olivia collects rocks that look like dinosaur eggs. Caramia, age two, just hollers, "Me too!" and copies whatever her sister is doing. Then both girls dump their rocks into my lap or handbag saying, "Here is a present for you, Mommy!" I always accept my stones graciously, fully intending to dump them out once we get home. But then we get home, and I forget, and find myself literally dragging around a bag full of rocks for days and days afterward. This same forgetfulness is why I've taken to writing myself little notes and stuffing them into the back pocket of my jeans. Sometimes I even find those notes later, and obey their often cryptic instructions. "M. dvr Inv. ABC" means "remind Mark to record ‘Invasion' tonight so that we don't miss a potentially good TV show about aliens." Most of the time, though, I forget all about the notes until after they've gone through the washing machine, leaving tiny bits of white lint all over our wet clothing. Or worse, I'll pull the note out, read it, and have no idea what at all I meant by "ck 8804 pp Eliz. tmrw." In an effort to be more organized and business-like, I attempted to use the calendar feature on my mobile phone instead of the back pocket note system. That wasn't a good solution. The last time I tried it, my phone sat in my handbag and beeped and beeped and beeped to remind me of whatever it was I'd already forgotten. Even though I registered the noise, I didn't think it had anything whatsoever to do with me. My producer, Todd, eventually strolled into my office asking, "Do you hear that?" "Yeah," I replied. "And it's driving me crazy. Where do you think it's coming from?" He stared at me. "Uh, how about your purse?" Oh. So much for the electronic approach. I was back to the note-in-pocket method which, if nothing else, was at least quiet. Cramming your pockets and purses full of your daily litter isn't the worst habit you can have. It's always a kick to reach into the pocket of a long-unused coat and find a bit of money, or a tube of Chapstick, or in my case once, the set of car keys I'd sworn were missing forever. Pockets and purses can contain miniature time capsules just waiting to be stumbled upon: a sliver of last winter preserved in a parka pocket, the sandy remains of a beach vacation nestled in the side pouch of a tote bag. Just last night, when it was finally chilly enough to warrant a jacket, I pulled one out of the closet and headed outside with our dog for a little stroll. As we meandered up the street, I slid my hands into my pockets and my fingers closed around a familiar shape. I pulled it out. It was a pink and purple pacifier, Caramia's binky. I hadn't worn that jacket in over a year, and in that span of time, my youngest had left pacifiers far behind. She was a walking, talking, singing, dancing, climbing, swimming, running, big girl now. Holding it, I suddenly remembered the morning that we brought her home from the hospital. I carefully dressed her in a soft white cotton smock with matching pantaloons, both embroidered with blue forget-me-nots. I held her ankles, so small and delicate, between my thumb and forefinger and gently eased a pair of doll-like white satin slippers onto her tiny feet. She seemed more fragile than Olivia had at that age, more helpless somehow. Or was that just wishful thinking on my part - an impossible hope that her magical newborn days could last just a bit longer? Now, as I stood there in the dark, holding her discarded pacifier, I realized -- probably for the first time -- that she truly wasn't a baby anymore. Walking back into the house, I debated what should be done with this last surviving binky. We certainly didn't need it anymore, and it wasn't the sort of thing you'd pass on to another child. As I reached for the lid of the trash can, I paused. And then, unable to part with the pacifier, I slipped it back into my pocket and put the jacket away. On the morning that we buried my grandmother, those of us who had loved her best gathered at her casket to say a final goodbye. We stood silently in the closed viewing room of the mortuary, my aunt Rosemary, my cousin Renee, my two brothers, my sisters-in-law, their young children, and me, hollowed by grief and dreading the funeral ceremony still to come. We bent down and stroked her worn, knotty hands, and kissed her strangely unyielding cool, powdery cheeks. My older brother's wife, Nancy, was clutching Grandma's favorite huge beige purse. She carefully tucked it at the foot of the casket. Though we hadn't planned it, each of us, like the ancient Egyptians, had brought something along we thought she might need on her journey to the next world. Into the bag went photographs of her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren. We made sure that she had her old wallet, battered and held together by a thick rubber band, and a picture of her late husband, young and brash in his first Navy uniform. We added Kleenex, her bronze Revlon lipstick, a pack of Juicy Fruit gum, her rosary and novena, the many Blessed Mother prayer cards that were always at her bedside, and for good measure, two of her favorite earthly pleasures: a one-pound Hershey chocolate bar and a copy of the National Enquirer. By the time the last treasure had been stashed in the purse, we were giggling through our tears. Even my aunt Rosemary, nearly immobilized by sorrow, managed a smile saying, "Mom, you never did go anywhere without your handbag." To the kindly, solicitous funeral director, we probably seemed like a pack of superstitious lunatics. But even now, more than ten years later, it's comforting to know that my beloved grandmother rests in peace with her favorite things. In that purse is a letter that I wrote her when I was eight years old, a letter that she'd tucked into a plastic sandwich baggie and saved for over two decades. In the letter, I told her that even though we were so far away from each other, me in Wyoming and her in New Jersey, I still loved her just the same as when she was near. Reading it as an adult made me laugh, as I know she must have laughed. I can close my eyes and see her worn fingers smoothing the paper and tracing the awkward lines of my first attempt at cursive writing. On the back of the envelope was a smeary kiss, proof that I'd sneaked into my mother's lipstick. I ‘m sure that my grandmother pressed that envelope to her face and kissed it right back. I was tempted to keep the letter, a small souvenir of the child I was. But I didn't. It was hers. And some things are meant to be saved.

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