My mother had this black nylon bag

she kept behind the kitchen door.

I don’t even know where she got it from.

Maybe from the market,

maybe from one of those shops that used to give you nylon for everything.

She used it for almost everything.

If there was leftover rice,

it went inside that bag.

If there was a piece of bread nobody had touched,

inside the bag.

Sometimes she would send me to buy something

and say,

“Bring my change. No use am o!.”

I always wondered why she kept old things.

There were newer bags everywhere,

but somehow,

that black nylon was always there.

Years later, after I left home,

I came back one afternoon

and saw it hanging behind the door.

Same bag.

Same knot.

Same ridiculous black nylon.

I laughed when I saw it.

Mummy looked at me and said,

“You still remember this thing?”

I didn’t know how to explain it.

I remembered the kitchen.

The sound of the radio.

The smell of stew.

Her slippers dragging across the floor.

Funny how something as useless as an old nylon bag

can carry so much of a person.

Maybe home is not always a place.

Sometimes,

it is just a small thing

you didn’t know you were going to miss.