My father moved his arthritic hands across
a row of pocketbooks as if he were a blind
man reading braille. Indeed, his vision was
nearly gone, so he had to lift each purse and
hold it close enough to see it. He unzipped
the pockets, felt the material, measured the
length of every strap. So intent he was on
finding the perfect gift, he might have been
alone in that busy store, save for his daughter,
whom he asked once or twice, What do you
think of this one? Still, the soft-leathered,
cream-colored, mid-sized purse was entirely
his choice. He paid for it with his credit card—
my only job, to sign his good name. Then
he carried that sack containing her present
as if it already held my mother’s wallet and
lipstick, her car keys and pens. And when she
opened his gift on Christmas Day, though he
could hardly see her face, my father knew its
shape by heart, could tell that she was smiling.
Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of six collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” The SUN, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Verse Daily, and many others. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award.
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