Stephanie Akers Cohen is our featured guest author today. I am grateful to share this wonderful piece she wrote as a tribute to her mother. Today would have been her mothers 99th birthday, the 10 year anniversary of her receiving this purse! Stephanie and I met online with a random intersection of writing and music magic, and I’m grateful to witness her writing journey. Enjoy, and let us know what you think!

My Mother’s Purse

by Stephanie Akers Cohen


After my father passed away in 2013, I brought my mother from Los Angeles to Oregon so I could oversee her care. The first birthday she spent with me was her 89th and in addition to having a small party, I bought her a new purse.

My mother was one of those women whose purse was more like a portable filing cabinet than a fashion accessory. Although she replaced them from time to time, each purse was a clone of the previous one: black, with adjustable straps and lots of compartments, but no larger than a lunch box.

The one she brought with her was tearing in places and crammed so full that the zippers were beginning to break. I asked her if I could help her clean it out, but she would have none of it. Her purse was hers as was everything in it.

The new purse was an excuse to sort through the contents of the old one, which we did together. When the first compartment was unzipped, a large volume of wadded up tissues popped out, like one of those spring-loaded snakes-in-a-can. No question what to do with that, yet it was hard to wrangle them away from her clutched fists and into the trash can.

Luckily, I had a new travel pack, and she somewhat reluctantly made the switch. There were several little notebooks filled with reminders of things that already had been or never would be done, phone numbers for people who were no longer living, appointments that had been kept or cancelled long ago, receipts for things she no longer owned. There was a key ring with a little baton that was supposed to be for self defense, and keys to her former house and a car that she hadn’t driven for years. Her  wallet was full of expired membership, ID and credit cards. She was not about to part with any of it, and the more I tried to convince her, the harder she held on.

Eventually, her purse was made manageable and even useful. In her wallet was her ID, a couple of membership cards, and one credit card as well as some cash. She agreed to consolidate everything into one notebook and one address book. She kept pens, keys, a comb, and make-up. And most importantly, mom’s special accessible parking card.

Mom didn’t really need her purse anymore. She was non ambulatory and suffering from dementia so I carried copies of her ID and credit cards and handled all of the transactions. I could have kept the parking card in my car, but she wanted her things in her purse.

Whenever we went anywhere, before we left she made sure she had her purse, and when we returned, she insisted I put it in a safe place where nobody would find it but where she could easily get to it. That safe place was the bottom shelf of her night stand behind a small trash can.

I guess that after so much of her life had been taken away … her home, her husband, her independence, and her memory … that it was important to have something that was still hers … something she could carry, and open and close and know that everything inside was also hers.

After she died December 30, 2020, I could have cleaned out mom’s purse and donated it to a charity. Instead, I have it here, intact, with her wallet, keys, address and note book, pens, comb, make-up, and an accessible parking card that expired on her birthday in 2023. All of it just as it has been since we sat together and moved items from her old purse to the new one several years ago.

I am not one to believe that we are watched by those who have gone before us … but I don’t quite not believe it either. So, just incase she asks “where’s my purse?” I can say with all certainty, “it’s right here, mom.”



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Stephanie Akers Cohen grew up in post World War II Los Angeles. She is now a retired graphic designer living in a suburb of Portland, Oregon with her husband and cat. She writes for herself, when the muse strikes, about ordinary things that in the moment appear to be special. She has aspirations to write a book about her family’s origins in America. If you would like to get in touch with Stephanie, please email sac452 @ mac.com (without spaces)