Gift set

Yellowed nacre cover and chipped spine. A muslin hinge, exposed by design. Why did I choose her Catholic Pocket Manual as memento?  Mostly hokum to me, all capitalized pronouns and Penance,  and power moves over the lives of women. My sister says our mother carried it up the aisle on her wedding day, part of a bridal gift-set with matching comb and hair brush. Hah! A perfect token of that mind-fuck label demi-vierge. For sixty years, the comb and brush took pride-of-place atop her dresser, but the book lay nestled beneath silk scarves in her lingerie drawer, like a blocky yellow tooth or lady’s pearl-handled gun. Yet, she must have held it in her hands, the shell cover cool and smooth and dangerous beneath her fingertips. A satin ribbon marks her last chapter—“The Examination of Conscience.” What had she to repent, my strict, loving mother? When I fan the pages now, the scent of talcum makes me sneeze. How many times can I open the book before the perfume fades?