Writing for the Soul

The one time Gran dropped her handbag on the shop floor was a revelation. The impact must have opened the clasp because there it was, all her tack strewn over a couple of boxes of bananas,- a cracked compact with a silver lid embossed with a rose,‘Present from Gramps,’ she said beaming at me with those playful eyes. A couple of safety pins ,- ‘Incase I become undone,’- she joked. A packet of Woodies, a box of Swan Vesta, an embroidered hankie, a bottle of 4711 Eau de Cologne, her maroon tapestry purse with two ten bob notes separately folded,- ‘Incase I make a mistake and hand over two at once you know,’ a tortoise shell comb for her wispy white curls and of course a bag of bon bons.

Gran’s handbag’s been lying at the bottom of my wardrobe wrapped in pink tissue paper for three months now, that is, until this morning. I felt the warmth of her words while stroking it. Placing her things in my memory box, I brushed away the bon bon dust from the inside and placed my purse at the bottom. It felt so empty.

Energised by tracing Gran’s footsteps, I reached the corner shop. ‘A tin of salmon, and half a pound of butter please.’ ‘Anything else?’ ‘Oh yes, and four ounces of bon bons.’ I said making sure I didn’t hand over two ten bob notes . Gran Bon Bons would have been very proud of me, I know.

- Eryl Lloyd Chitty, Gran Bon Bons