Granny's Pockets, by Jane Hertenstein

I grew up thinking pockets were boobs. My granny had an ingenious way of carrying random objects; she’d tuck stuff down the front of her baggy dress into a fathomless well of cleavage. She kept things in her “pockets,” her bra handier than any backpack. I once saw her produce a pair of scissors. I imagined things getting lost and surfacing years later. When the ice cream man came down the street, she’d reach inside and retrieve a sweaty coin purse, money jingling with every bounce. Even today I get confused. If caught without a purse, I’ll always have pockets.