Pocket Memory

Imogene clutched it–the something in her pocket that gave her comfort.

It was too warm for the faux fur coat.  The sun beamed through the window, making her want to stretch out like a cat.  The thin jacket Katie had given her suited better, but it had no pockets.

Katie…stoic behind the wheel, worry in her eyes.  “Are you all right, mom?”

Imogene fingered the box, remembering…

Six years old.  Her first plane ride.  As the jet took off, she whimpered at the unfamiliar pressure in her stomach.  “Shush now,” Mom said.  “It’s all right.”

A dark-haired woman turned around, a gold box in her open palm.  An exquisite flower rested beneath its plastic cover.  “It’s an orchid from Hawaii,” she said.  “I want you to have it.”  Imogene gazed at the orchid whenever the dip of an air pocket frightened her.

She gazed at it now, holding it so only she could see the vibrant orchid of sixty years past transpose into the colorless crinkles of now.

Katie touched her arm.  “We’re here, Mama.  Dr. Wells says Daddy’s near the end.”

Imogene clutched it–the memory in her pocket that gave her comfort.

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