My mother died twelve years ago. Her belongings were ruined by two floods so there were no trunks stuffed with memorabilia to sort through. Most of her tastes were satisfied by thrift stores so she was spared an enormous
loss. Except for the photographs. Some were salvaged but water is notoriously unkind to paper.
There is one strand of jewelry that survived the catastrophes. My sister, the one who rescued our mom
from the aftermath, chose this particular week to offer it to me. The golden necklace came into our mother’s possession, though I cannot name the giver nor the story that died with her. Probably it is three score years old. It was surprisingly weighty in my palm when it slid out of the padded envelope. I looked at the clasp. How many times had my mother’s fingers lulled the latch into place, or if the moment was tender, my father’s thick ones? Not that they traveled in social circles where
finery is expected but there was the occasional wedding, and catered dinner with two forks for clergy and wives.
I set it around my own throat and immediately felt her presence. The quirky thing
about a sixteen inch necklace is that the wearer cannot see it glimmer. She can only sense the heft against her clavicle.
The neck is a vulnerable part of human anatomy. It houses the passageways
for breath, food, and water as well as that delicate organ for speech, the voice box. Nothing of consequence.
The links themselves are strong, as if they have no intention of letting go. So far
they haven’t. Each 22K curl wraps three times around its closest neighbors. It reminds me of a preschooler dancing down the sidewalk. Her mother walks deliberately behind, without wasting steps, but the child twirls capriciously like the lemony hair on her shoulders and the pink skirt around her waist. She arrives, as does her parent, but probably had more fun along the way.
This necklace has had it’s share of fun. It slept in my mother’s jewelry box until an event appeared on the calendar worthy of gleam. Perhaps there were evenings when the chain drew all the attention, leaving my mother’s dress and earrings unnoticed.
I intend to wear it all summer. Not because it makes sense with a cotton skirt and Birkenstocks, but to invoke her voice. Her breath. Her nourishment in my commonplace routine. I will have it on the first time I hold my granddaughter, my mother’s great
grandchild. If I am very lucky, she might curl her tiny fingers around my pinky, capturing my heart in the bargain. I have a feeling I won’t want her ever to let go.
Then the two ends of that golden circle of
femininity will clasp hands.
