Fiction | September 01, 1997

This story is not currently available online.

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.

If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.