It was late, and I was tired. I’d been sneezing all day, feeling the kind of sick that is too mild to treat and too annoying to ignore. My nose was red and sore, it hurt when I swallowed, and I was happy it was bedtime.

I took off my jeans and socks and pulled my top over my head. When I did, a tissue fell from my bra and drifted lazily to the floor.

I stared at the clump at my feet, and my eyes bulged in their watery sockets.

It was happening. I was becoming an older woman whose chest was of value only for its usefulness in stowing goods for safekeeping.

I remember my mom doing this. When I was small, we walked to the grocery store. Mom didn’t want to lug a purse all that way; she kept her grocery list tucked away inside her top, along with cash or a check for payment at Kroger.

And, yes, saved a tissue for any sudden sweat or sad moment.

I didn’t think much about it when I was a little girl. It seemed a handy place for all Mom’s needs. Her ample tops hid an ample torso, and when she slipped pinched fingers inside her shirt, I knew they would emerge with something useful.

The neckline of her blouse would stretch open slightly with the effort, baring a freckled plane of blushed skin below her chin. Little ripples of movement wiggled like worms inside the place where her chest began to balloon.

Then…. PRESTO…out popped a nickel for the gum machine. ABRACADABRA! There was the coupon for ten cents off Breeze laundry detergent she’d ripped from the paper that morning.

Back then, I had seen Mom’s bras on the clothesline many times. Her limp underpinnings seemed utilitarian to me, and knowing the volume of items she kept squirreled away inside, I understood their size.

Keeping things there was as sensible to me as Dad’s billfold pocket in the back of his blue work pants.

Then, I got older. The miracle of my own female development opened my eyes to the value and genuine purpose of a bra. It was for my growing body. For skin.

Not for the flotsam and jetsam of commerce, self-care, or information.

Suddenly, I found Mom’s habit of using her bra as a treasure chest embarrassing. I stole glances her way, scanning her top for telltale, inhuman lumps.

Would anyone notice the crinkle sound when she crossed her arms? What was that square place on the right? Was it a Chunky candy bar she was saving?

She would hand me things from her chest. “Here. Take this list to the store. Need a Kleenex? I have one. Need a dime? There’s one in here...”

Would the coins stick to her skin, forcing her to crush her jowls downward and peer inside her top while peeling the money from its “pocket?”

Though I knew there was little danger of anything falling out (what could escape that squished space?), I slinked alongside her in the store, praying that no one would see her reaching inside her top for anything.

When had Mom forgotten that her bosom was a delicate, lovely creation, designed by God? I swore that I would never forget my femininity.

And here I am. I’ve become a bra-stowing, double-cubby woman, just like her.

I stared at the crumpled tissue lying between my feet and knew it would only be a matter of time before I began using my chest for holding other practical things.

Quick upper pocket for debit cards. Phone sling. Business card holder. And, clearly, a tissue dispenser.

I glanced inside my bra to be sure nothing else was squirreled away there. Then I picked up the tissue. I had to admit…it was nice to have it so handy.

Contact Robin at robinwrites@yahoo.com