My mother’s handbag was a heavy burden to carry, but she lever left the house without it, clinging to it like a life raft as she navigated the world. It always contained a tube of hot pink lipstick from Merle Norman, wads of Kleenex that smelled vaguely of perfume, a plastic rain bonnet that folded into a tight rectangular fan, a beige Naugahyde case that snapped at the top, containing a pack of True Blue cigarettes and an assortment of plastic lighters in various colors, a

I am thirteen, and I’m doing the same thing I do every day after school: hitting a tennis ball against the door of the garage over and over and over.

When I see them on display at the farmer’s market, I can’t help but think about how many hands have touched them