Here, Take This

I don’t even remember exactly when it started,
just that it did.

Some random night, scrolling, half paying attention, half not.

And this woman on TikTok is talking about
how in the late 1800s—Victorian era,
when flirting had rules and layers
and absolutely no one was “sliding into DMs”—

women carried handkerchiefs.

And if they saw a man they liked, they’d “accidentally” drop it.

Not clumsy. Not careless.

Intentional.

And if he picked it up,
that meant something.

Permission. Interest.
A door cracked open just enough.

And I remember thinking,
okay… that’s actually kind of genius.

Because it’s not rejection,
it’s not coming on too strong.
It’s an invitation without saying a word.

And she said—
I’m not saying we should go around dropping handkerchiefs,

but the modern version of that
is eye contact.

Just a second longer than normal, a little smile.

No AirPods.
No phone shield.
No pretending to be deeply invested in your email
while waiting for coffee.

Just… being available.

And I thought, huh. Okay.

So I started doing that.

Walking into Starbucks like a human being, not a locked screen.

Looking around, not in a weird way, just… open.

And did it lead to anything?

I mean, not exactly.

No great love story,
no “we locked eyes and now we live on a vineyard” situation.

But also, maybe that wasn’t the point.

Because somewhere along the way,
the handkerchief thing stuck.

Not the flirting part.

The object.

I started carrying them.

At first as a reminder to look up, to be present,
to maybe notice someone noticing me.

But then it became practical.

My nose is always doing something.
Lipstick doesn’t stay where it’s supposed to.
Life is… messy.

And a handkerchief handles that quietly.

No crinkling wrapper.
No digging around for a tissue that doesn’t exist.

Just dab, fold, keep moving.

(Also—there was one open house, no toilet paper, absolute emergency situation…

and yeah, a handkerchief stepped up in a big way.

Not glamorous. Very necessary.)

And then it shifted again.

Because that’s what things do.

They don’t stay what they started as.

They evolve.

I started giving them away.

Meetings.
Rooms where people come to tell the truth
or sit quietly while it lands.
People holding it together until they’re not.
A woman sharing, voice catching, eyes filling.

And I don’t make a big deal out of it.

I just reach into my purse and pass it back.

No eye contact.
No interruption.

Just here.

And almost every time, they hesitate.

“No, no, I can’t—”

And I’m like, no, really.

Go to town.

Blow your nose.
Wipe your face.
Mess it up.

It’s yours.

And they try to give it back.

And I say, wash it, keep it, give it to someone else.

Pass it on.

Like we do.

And somewhere in there,
my mom got involved.

Because of course she did.

So now every time I go over, she’s handing me more.

Little stacks, different patterns, some prettier than others.

And then her friend Tina finds them
and passes them to her, and they make their way to me.

Like this quiet little supply chain of softness.

So now I don’t leave the house without at least two. Usually three.

Some of them stained with lipstick, which honestly feels right.

Used.
Lived in.
Not precious.

Except for the one.

A couple weeks ago,

I handed one back without even looking.

Just instinct.

The woman behind me wasn’t even sharing.

Just listening.

But something in her shifted.

And I felt it.

Reached into my purse, arm behind the chair.

Here.

After the meeting,
we’re all standing around, that loose circle in the parking lot.

And another woman walks up to me.

“Hey… I saw what you did back there.”

And I’m like, oh. Yeah.

She tells me it was really nice.

And I kind of brush it off like I always do.

You know, I have a ton of them,
I carry them around, it’s just kind of my thing.

No big deal.

And she just nods, like she already decided something.

Reaches into her purse and hands me one.

“Here’s one for you.”

And it’s beautiful.

White, with these golden poppy flowers.

And I just paused.

Because I’ve handed out a lot of handkerchiefs.

But I’ve never really received one.

Not like that.

And it hit me.

This whole time, I thought I was the one dropping them.

But really, they’ve been circling back.

Different hands.
Different stories.

Same small gesture.

Just—Here.

Take this.

You might need it.