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Illustration by Catherine Chan
Before her fall, but during her continual failing, and as a part of the constant downsizing, my mother and I sorted through her things, now and then, again and again, each time disposing of a very few.
On one of those days, I came across the Beaded Bag. It is a gem of a bag. Navy blue, white and black beads cover the surface of this lady’s evening purse. It has a dark blue silk interior, with a tiny pocket where a miniature mirror lived, just big enough for a lipstick fix.
My mother sat nearby, paying little attention to what I was doing. I thought she must be grieving deep inside at the sight of her life being brought into view, piece by piece, bit by bit, memories both dear and tragic, each item requiring a decision that she must make: to remember, to keep or to let go.
At the first touch of the Beaded Bag, I was struck by a memory. As I brought it forth from the drawer where it had lain for years, unused, the tears came. I caught my mother’s face at that instant and saw my emotions reflected in hers … we both let loose the tears and cried as we recalled the occasions that Mom’s beaded evening bag had accompanied her and my father on special dates.
“I would like for you to have that,” she said quietly.
I was moved. It was unsettling and almost a shock that my Mother chose me as the recipient. What would my sisters say? But I knew my Mother had made the right decision, I would treasure this prize and she sensed it.
I thought about how I would carry it with pleasure, whether evening or daytime, whether I was dressed up or wearing blue jeans. The bag was lovely and filled with sparkling memories of past events, which would expand into full-blown reminders of where it had been each time I carried it.
However, much like it had stayed stashed in my Mother’s bureau for years, it began to stay stashed in mine too. Until I was invited to attend an opera in Prague. It was one of my favourites: Rusalka by Antonin Dvorak, the aria Song to the Moon is divine, memorable and timeless. The storyline is full of hope, helplessness, unrequited love and of course tragedy.
Weeks before I left for Prague, I thought about what to wear. It needed to be elegant, classic and refined. Yes, I knew I’d wear understated black but with an exceptional accessory. The beaded bag would be ideal, where had I left it? I looked and looked through drawers in search of it.
Eventually, I found it! I made sure to carefully pack it into my carry- on, the beaded bag was far too valuable to me to put into a checked bag and travel in the airplane’s luggage hold. I wrapped it in tissue and cotton, to make certain it would not only arrive, but arrive in good shape, unscarred.
On the night of the opera, I carried it with pride. First though, I studied my outfit in front of my room’s full-length mirror, holding the bag in various ways, finally deciding on the proper way to carry it. I knew that with the beaded bag gently clutched just at my waist, it was guaranteed that I would look like an official opera attendee – mother’s bag was the showpiece of my outfit.
Prague’s National Theatre is one of the most glorious performance halls in all of Europe. The entrance hall is grand, beyond grand – it is magnificent. I was simply unable to take it all in – the overwhelming construct of gold and arches, marble stairway, opulent crystal chandeliers, frescoes trimmed in carved gold frames, the small opera boxes in the main area reserved for royalty, celebrities or the wealthy. It was enchanting! I felt like I was either in a movie or a dream, but this was real. I thought of my mother. She would have enjoyed this. Even though no one seemed to notice me or the beaded bag, I knew that little bag was simply creating more history for us.
When I returned home, my mother, still failing, did not likely understand much when I tried to explain the night out I had with her beaded bag. Handed down to me, it had one of the most spectacular evenings that little bag could have ever imagined. I’m certain in the future, it will have even more.
Deborah Moore lives in Halfmoon Bay, B.C.