My mother's handbag was important to her,
like a comfort blanket in her last months,
either on the floor by her feet or on her lap,
something to carry, to hold onto, to grip tight
in the scary moments of life's fading light.
After she'd gone to rest in peace, a check
of the handbag's contents revealed a surprise,
in a zipped pocket, a signed photo of Eamonn Holmes,
a treasured possession (go on cynics, scoff and laugh),
personal to her, a picture, a message and an autograph.
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