Whiteout

I watch my ninety-one year old mother traverse
the aisles of Walmart in a quest of the perfect white
purse. As if approaching the summit of Everest she
digs into a mountain of mark downs, zips, unzips, buckles,
unbuckles, to find one with pockets for a flip phone, two sets
of keys, three bus schedules and a rescue inhaler she refuses to use.
It must hold an address book of friends, most of whom no longer need an
address, mints, antacids, gum and a magnifying glass the size of a salad plate.
She inspects a suitcase-sized purse that opens accordion-style, compartments
for envelopes of cash labeled food, clothes, medicine as well as space for scissors,
in case her sleeve gets caught in a shopping cart. She leaves nothing to chance, finds
a purse with small sections for comb, lipstick, tweezers, and her wad of credit cards
held together with thick rubber bands. I watch as she peers into each smooth lining,
feels for a safe place to hide her rice paper wallet, the one with my father’s picture glued
on the flap, the one her arthritic hands struggle to open. A purse with memory and function,
a mobile unit slung over her shoulder, rope and pickaxe for the slow, uneven climb ahead.