The other day I was thinking about writing and not writing and the way a well-worn memory will resurface, not so much rising up, as appearing like a cold pocket in the relatively warmer water of a lake. This thought, a recollection, really, of the pond at a bungalow colony where a friend first taught me how to swim, led to a stream of associations to pockets of other kinds.
The fake pockets on a vintage women’s suit jacket I once owned, the little tabs velvet lined.
The organization pockets in favorite 5-subject notebooks from junior high.
The small extra pocket in jeans it turns out was originally made to hold and protect a pocket watch.
How small backpacks like the one I use instead of a purse all now have a zippered phone pocket that faces your back for security.
The potentially lethal air pockets of the bends.
How the silk pockets of the long wool winter coats I once favored always tore, change and small mementos trapped out of reach inside the lining.
Down vests and sweaters made to pack into one of their pockets.
Those ever so creepy Polly Pocket dolls.
Hot Pockets. (I’ve never eaten one.)
The one or two Greenies cat treats remaining in the right pocket of my sweatpants at the end of the day, and the calcium tablet occasionally forgotten in the left one.
The short 3-pocket canvas apron that was once part and parcel of a seasonal styling gig for a home textiles manufacturer—a job I worked on and off for 30 years. I don’t have one of those aprons anymore, but I still have a pair of the small Fiskars scissors with a plastic safety guard/sharpener that fit in them so neatly.
The glory of The Pretenders song “Brass in Pocket.”
The much lesser but still catchy “Pocketful of Sunshine” by Natasha Bedingfield.
True story this made me think of: about a hundred and fifty years ago at work, a friend insisted that his checkbook had been stolen. (The fact that he carried around a checkbook tells you how old the story is.) An extra-large stink was made and an investigation was had, a big deal, since we worked in a district attorney's office and real life felons were in and out of the office. Anyhoo, something like two years later this same guy wears a jacket fresh from the dry cleaners and discovers said missing checkbook which had wormed its way through the lining of the jacket pocket to the back of the jacket.