Handkerchief

By Amy Barone

Mementoes of a gentler time — crisp cotton handkerchiefsedged in lace, some stamped with embroidered flowers —
perfectly pressed, piled in drawers at my late mother’s home.

As a child learning to iron, I’d choose the square plaid hankies
my father carried to work and the white ones he used in church.
Handkerchiefs once held cachet.

A wave with one across the room signaled attraction.
At the Roman games, they heralded the official start.
They were bequeathed to loved ones in ancient Egypt.

Othello’s first gift to Desdemona was a hankie.
As early as 77 B.C., Catullus weaved them into his poems.
In Gone with the Wind, Rhett handed Scarlett one in a dramatic
scene.

I found a paisley handkerchief in my mother’s handbag
on the day of her stroke. I left it there, cherished it,
never to be handled again — a symbol of etiquette,
her ladylike ways, a vanishing age.