Robb carried a handkerchief in his pocket. He rarely needed it; it was largely for me. He married a teary girl.
When I needed it, in church or in a movie, he had one handy for me. I needed one recently. (Tears are fresh and plentiful these days.) I couldn't find it. I groped blindly in my handbag, wishing upon wishes for something to dry these streams of mascara.
And then something prompted my mind to travel down a linear path:
I took it out of my purse when we traveled to Ohio,
I wanted it with me on the plane,
I put it in my red bag,
my computer is in my red bag,
my red bag is sitting at my feet in this coffee shop.
I reached into the big pocket of the red bag. Sure enough: the familiar, worn linen of his handkerchief, monogrammed in the bottom right corner.
It was as if he had handed it to me once more.
"Thanks, honey," I whispered, seemingly to myself, but not to myself really at all.