There are other things to remember with while she waits. A handbag squished between the end of the bed and the washing baskets filling the space from bed to cupboard. When had it fallen and why hadn’t she noticed? Burgundy leather—real leather, soft all over and softer still in the creases. Lots of creases because it had lived a long life before Nic rescued it from a garage sale three blocks away towards the shopping centre. It had been shoved in a cardboard box along with a man’s striped business shirt with all the buttons missing, a pale pink satin negligee with lace trim and a matching pair of old-fashioned fluffy mules, a white cotton apron printed with large, bright oranges, and a child’s painting smock—yellow, and speckled with all the other colours. Nic had been planning to take only the handbag, since its opened zipper—a silent screaming mouth—had called to her, but halfway across the lawn towards the payment table she felt the terrible pull in her guts that meant she was doing something wrong. Listen to your gut, Mum always said, and Nic had never gone wrong doing so. She returned to the box, placed the handbag back among its friends, carried the whole thing over to the table.

‘How old are your kids?’ the man said as she handed over the ten dollars.

‘No kids.’ Confused but not offended. ‘Niece and nephew, but they’re—’

‘Ah, you’re vying for best aunty award, hey?’

She smiled, didn’t know why. At home, examining each item more carefully, she understood the box was for children to play dress-ups and she flushed with heat. Imagine if she’d told him her niece and nephew were teenagers and lived in another state. He’d have known her for what she was. Childless old dope, buying other people’s junk.

She’d sat for a bit, stroking the burgundy leather. It soothed her, made her sorry. Not junk, not at all. Magic. She could see the sweet baby calf in the green field, huge eyes blinking up at its mama as it feeds, grows tall and wide and strong, the farmer protecting its skin from insects and barbed wire and brands, and at the end of its life, the cherished, perfect skin is turned over to artists to create their tribute. A whole team of people working together for weeks or months, tanning and treating and dying and stretching. Brushing and buffing and stitching with such tenderness. How much time passed between the birth of that calf and this moment? How much labour and care and ingenuity and skill? When she stroked it, she felt the traces of all those other hands. The wonder of that!