"Don't forget your hanky," Mom said almost eighty years ago as I went out the door, and I think that's why I keep a generous supply clean and folded square along with socks and underwear in my middle dresser drawer. When my brother Clifford died, Mary Jo gave me an unopened pack that Cliff had kept who knows how long. I'm guessing a reminder had sounded in his head, too, so, having taken heed, neither he nor I would be caught unprepared. Often enough a nose bleed or a seasonal sneeze would not be blocked by paper tissue. More lately, at weddings when the couple vows . . . "in sickness or in health, for better or for worse," folded cloth absorbs my sobs. Most often now, it's at memorials whether for youth or aged alike that I check my pocket hoping to find that a hanky is there. Tonight, though, cries of laughter arise in surprise, with no need to be stifled, but sputtering, slobbering Great Grand Kids find perchance most sacred use for a hanky that catches it all.
Poet friend Don Bouchard's "Hanky" poem inspired me to write about some of my own hanky memories.ย ย Five years and four months have gone by since my beloved Janice left this life. I had expected my poem to be mostly "about" her, and she is indeed remembered in and between every line that I write, but she would be pleased to see what surprised me in this piece.