I expected Gia to come back.
That was the problem.
She was standing in the doorway holding the beach bag I’d knitted her that spring.
Cream-colored.
One handle was crooked because I was never any good at knitting, but I finished it anyway.
Gia had laughed when I gave it to her.
« It looks homemade, » she’d said.
« It is homemade. »
« I mean really homemade. »
She had grinned when she said it, and I tossed a dish towel at her.
She used that bag constantly after that.
Her little brass keychain was hanging off the strap, the one she’d had since she was six.
It was scratched and dull by then. She had moved it from backpack to purse to beach bag for years. I never understood why she kept it.
Maybe because children hold on to things for reasons they cannot explain.
Maybe mothers do too.
That afternoon, Gia stood in the doorway with one hand gripping that crooked handle.
