I haven't named you yet because the task is entirely too daunting. You're a special one, you, and I want your name to be more than just my genetically influenced tendency to humanize the inanimate. You, dear bag, were made by my mother's hand. You can feel it, can't you? How carefully you were crafted, how lovingly you were cut, pieced and sewn. And I know, I know, you can probably still hear the curse words ringing in whatever we'll call your ears from all those times you bunched and buckled, and curled, because my mother, she doesn't mess around.
The thing is, although you are absolutely gorgeous with your bright vintage print and classic shape, it's more than that. It's more than the repurposed zipper, the perfectly placed pockets, the crisp whiteness of your piping and the mellowness of your muslin interior. The reason why you are more than just any bag, why you are so special, is that I can see, in each stitch and fold, every seam and closure, my mother's hands, her mother's hands, my hands. I can hear the buzz of the sewing machine on hot summer days when I was a child, the boom of my mother's voice to "come upstairs and try this on!" Every time I swing you over my shoulder, I think about mornings on the floor of her sewing room, sorting buttons, stashing favorites in my pockets, picking patterns, fabric, ribbon, offering suggestions, brandishing requests. Every time I look at you I remember what it was like to grow up with someone who made things; I remember what it was like to grow up with someone who made life.
So, dear bag, you inspire me beyond the warm glow of your wardrobe lifting color, beyond what you allow to carry and organize inside, past your ability to draw confidence inspiring compliments throughout the day. Bag, you inspire me to be more like my mother - to make more, to live more, to be more. And so maybe that's it, maybe you've had a name all along.
Dearest Marcia bag, you're a keeper.