Fiction | September 01, 1997

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My mother carried huge pocketbooks with everything in the world in them but money.  When she got a new pocketbook it was a bright new day, cleared up for ship sightings.  The old pocketbooks she’d leave stuffed to the hilt just as they were, and they’d wind up somewhere on the floor of the hall closet with the other vinyl and plastic residue of our skinflinted lives.

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