In lieu of the customary prayer, my mother would write her “words” that she read aloud at the holiday dinner table. Inspired by our mutual love of words, I will share my words here with you.

Recognition

The smell as we enter the doorway is immediately recognizable. Warm and musky compared to the cool, green breeze of the street. The place is no wider than 10 feet, filled floor to ceiling with colors, shapes and textures. The saleswoman smiles at us both from the cash register at the back. There is no sense of personal space here. We jostle and side-step each other as if we’d been doing it for years. Me first. You next. Up the left side. Down the right side. Back to start again making sure we haven’t missed any of the leather pieces. Our eyes scan purses, gloves, wallets, belts, and bags.

There’s a purse for your mom.
It’s like the one you bought yourself two years ago that she loved.

I’m oohing over the woven braids of a clutch,
The price tag dampens my enthusiasm.
Oh, but look. Those red gloves!
Definitely in my budget.
Shit, too small.
You help me find another size, but they’re not red. It’s got to be red.
Besides, gloves in Phoenix?
You remind me that it gets cold in Flagstaff.

We both spot that tote bag.
Somehow I know it’s you even though it’s brown and not black.
You hold it up. Look at the black option, then back at the brown.
It’s a perfect carry-on (with style of course).
I totally understand why you like the brown best.

Our exchange feels familiar like a spice I’m trying to detect in the dish I always order at the Indian restaurant back home. So good. But what is it?

Lynn would have loved those red gloves too. Mom would have bought them whether they fit or not. The memory of it makes me smile as I watch you pay for your purchases. God, we loved to shop. We always had coffee and pie afterward. You and I stop for Aperol Spritz.