little black purse.

A few weeks ago, the strap on my little black purse broke. I was walking down the street, about to meet some new friends for coffee, when without warning the strap tore off, sending my purse flying and some of my belongings sprawled out on the sidewalk.

I hadn’t even noticed the strap was fraying, to be honest. I got the purse 4 years ago, right before I left for a semester abroad in Europe. I needed a small but sturdy purse to schlep around museum stubs, small souvenirs, receipts from restaurants, and even a piece of bread or two I nicked from the table of some fancy trattoria.

Since my semester abroad, my black purse has been a loyal companion. It’s accompanied me to nearly every important event: weddings for good friends, my college graduation, first days at new jobs, countless concerts, two moves across the country, the time I got stranded with my bosses in Miami and had to drive all the way back to Minnesota, and even my grandma’s funeral in July.

It wasn’t particularly cute, or even all that nice, but it was always the thing I needed it to be.

But I need a new small but functional purse, so I bought a replacement last night at Target.

I sat down last night to clean out my black purse and transfer the belongings to my new one - intending to throw away the black purse when I was done.

But I couldn’t.

Inside the purse I found memories from past relationships, gas station receipts from my move out to CA 10 months ago, wedding invitations from some of the people I love most in the world, even bubble wands from an event I don’t remember but can only assume was a big celebration.

At the bottom of the purse, though, I found my grandma’s coffee order scribbled on a post-it. I had written it down when I saw her in May. I didn’t know then that that would be the last time I would ever see her - they were just innocent words carelessly scrawled on a piece of paper, unaware of their significance. This would be the last coffee order, this would be the last laugh over a Caribou latte.

It’s just a piece of paper, and it’s just a purse. But I still couldn’t throw them away.

There comes a point sometimes when stuff becomes more than just stuff. They become the vehicles for treasured memories - visceral reminders of moments or people you want to hang on to forever. I store that summer in this pair of tennis shoes, or that bonfire in that t-shirt, or this relationship in that sweatshirt.

And I just wonder, years from now when every memory we’ve ever had can just be accessed via a metaphorical cloud of information floating in space somewhere, if we’ll have the same feeling I had holding my grandma’s coffee order in my hand: that even though we can’t stop time from slipping through our fingers, it was nice to have a tangible thing to hold that brought me back to a time and place that only lives in my mind, even if it was just for a moment.