I reach inside the cool satin-lined clutch set on the counter. It's rectangular and turquoise; my mother's small vault of business cards, tassels, swatches of chamois and wool. It's not the paper money or the coins I'm after. It's the embroidered hanky, the distant hint of morning's Chanel. What I want is to unfold the quartered linen, then crease it back and forth until the flower, which was hidden, appears in the pleats, now a fan to cool mother down, make laughter where there is little. When that doesn't work, I place the hanky on my head and practice good posture while walking up the stairs to my room, where I lay down against the lavender floor, a square of white on my face. And with my eyes closed, I blow, thinking of chiffon and veils. Mother walks in to say it's dinner, wash up, and for Christ's sake, don't put that dirty rag in your mouth.