The Purse with the Comma and an Ellipsis

This morning, while doing something as ordinary as switching my purse from fall to winter mode, I found myself holding a memory I hadn’t touched in years.

A black Jimmy Choo bag — sleek, structured, quietly glamorous — gifted to me by my mom sometime in  2007. The kind of gift that, yes, absolutely came with a comma in the price tag. My colleagues at the time used to joke that it was my “comma bag,” and honestly? They weren’t wrong.

It was extravagant. Bougie, even. And my mom? She didn’t care. If anything, she delighted in it.

Back then I was just starting my social work career, wearing flats from Target and stretching every paycheck. A Jimmy Choo bag wasn’t just out of reach —

it was from another universe entirely.

But that was my mom. She had the means and she loved to treat you. Not to impress anyone, but because generosity — especially through gift-giving — was her love language. She found joy in giving joy.

And she was so happy to give me this purse.

For years it was my fancy bag — the one I carried to work events or date nights, or anytime I wanted to channel a more extravagant version of myself.

And then life shifted. I had children. Baby bottles, sticky fingers and Goldfish crumbs became daily accessories. Suddenly my Jimmy Choo felt too precious, too impractical, too risky to bring near the beautiful chaos of motherhood. So, I tucked it away in a closet, promising myself I’d pull it out again “someday.”

And somehow, years passed.

Today, when I reached for winter’s bag and my hands brushed the soft leather, something stopped me. I pulled it out. I cleaned it off. I held it up to the light.

It is still stunning. But the emotion that hit me wasn’t about the purse at all.

It was about my mom.

Grief is random. It doesn’t always arrive on anniversaries or in the big moments. Often, it shows up in the most mundane places — in closets, in old purses, in the familiar shape of something once loved.

Standing there with this beautiful bag, I felt overwhelmingly grateful for her. And also, overwhelmingly sad. Both truths sat beside each other, deafeningly loud, as they often do.

I miss her generosity, yes — the gifting, the spoiling, the way she lit up when she gave you something she knew you would never buy for yourself.

But more than that, I miss her. Her presence. Her excitement. Her belief in me, long before I believed in myself.

Pulling out this purse reminded me of the way she showed love: enthusiastically, wholeheartedly, without hesitation. It reminded me of the life she created for me. It reminded me of being her daughter. And it reminded me — in the gentlest way — of how much I still ache for her.

So no, it’s not “just a purse.” It’s a marker of who I was then, who I am now, and who I’m still becoming in the wake of loss.

And this winter? I’m carrying it again.

Not because it’s fancy. Well… maybe a little because she’s fancy.

But mostly because it feels like carrying a little piece of her with me.

And right now, that feels like exactly what I need.