‘The Magic Purse.’
That’s what my mum used to call it.
The opening and closing brought me either happiness or despair.
Notes, that appeared from secret, hidden compartments were transformed into ice creams and new shoes.
I remember that sometimes, without trickery or sleight of hand, mum would display the emptiness, only allowing a quick glimpse at photographs and old receipts.
Now, these memories have value. A currency, more important than sterling.
Two weeks ago, the magician left the stage.
I snap the purse closed. I don’t want the old magic to escape.
Originally published: Crossing The Tees