Stones, wrappers, spent gum, broken shells, dollar bills soft from the wash.
As a child I abused my pockets—crumpled leaves, melted chocolate, unwrapped candy, leaky pens—and as a teen I filled them: movie stubs, bus tickets, cigarette butts, bottle caps, lip gloss, condoms.
When I finally grew up and got married, I learned the value of a purse, which is like 20 pockets combined: wallet, telephone, tissue, hairbrush, lotion, notebook, perfume, aspirin. But I had never fully relinquished my obsession with pockets, though when I found her number in my husband’s, I wished I had.
“I write to satisfy my curiosity about how the world works, and how I work.” – the author