The Thing She Can't Explain Keeping

The Thing She Can't Explain Keeping. She carries everything she might need to become whoever the day requires. There are things in her bag she's never mentioned to anyone. The cash folded in a zippered pocket, enough to get home from anywhere. The pill she carries just in case. The object that's been there so long she forgets it exists until her hand brushes it and she remembers: oh, that's still here. A photo. A note. A thing she can't explain keeping but can't bring herself to remove. If someone emptied her bag onto a table, they'd see not just what she needs but what she's afraid of, what she's lost, what she's still holding onto. The bag knows things about her she doesn't say out loud.

There's a moment in the car, in a doorway, mid-stride, when her hand moves into the bag without looking. She doesn't think about what she's reaching for. Her fingers know. This is what separates the bag that works from