I can remember Mom reminding me once or twice….”The little gold box is important, don’t ever forget it.“
When she died, two of her best friends reminded me to take the little box with me.
I did.
It contains my mother’s, mother’s pearls. Grandma was a tiny woman, compared to me, she was teeny-tiny. I’m more than a foot taller than she was, and about 4-5 inches taller than my own mother was.
The little box sits on an old antique umbrella stand on the landing of our staircase, between a couple of photos. At Mom’s house it sat on this same antique piece of furniture. So when she died, the pair stuck together and moved to my home.
I pass it every day, many times, and hardly ever notice it.
And yet, I suppose on some level it does register.
I remember questioning, much later, if she and they had meant the gold toned brass firewood box in Mom’s kitchen….I sometimes wonder if she had something valuable stashed under the wood. She kept her important papers stashed under the dirty laundry in the old 1950’s era hamper in the bathroom, so it’s not out of the realm of possibilities. I’ll never know.
But I feel pretty confident this was the box that was being referred to, and that it held family sentimental value rather than significant monetary value.
Mom kept her money in the bank, a few things in her safety deposit box, and she didn’t have much in the way of valuable jewelry after having had her house broken into years earlier. She’d passed on her few pieces to me already by the time she’d died. A pretty ring with two pearls; one white and one black. A beautiful ring with a large aquamarine gemstone. A gold ring with a black onyx stone and a tiny diamond set in the centre. And her promise, engagement, and wedding rings.
I have her pearls too. She gave them to me when I was in my 20’s, along with a handwritten note that lives with them. It says “These will look much better around your long slender neck than my short fat one.”
She was always self-deprecating.
Guess I know where that trait came from in myself.
I also have my Granny’s pearls, but those need to be restrung. They were broken when I received them when she passed away and I’ve never gotten around to having them restrung.
And finally, I have a beautiful and dainty three strand pearl necklace made of gradually increasing and then decreasing sized pink pearls. I bought those at an antique store because I thought they were pretty, and apparently because I didn’t think I had enough pearls to not wear.
I don’t think I’ve worn pearls since high school.
But they are pretty.
When I picked up the box earlier today, and opened it, a waft of perfume came out and I buried my nose in the material lining it and cushioning the pearls. Old perfume, but still fragrant and still a pretty smell. I imagine Grandma must have worn it and the pearls together and it built up in the fabric over time.
Somewhere I have a tiny little bottle with a dried but still somewhat oily perfume residue at the bottom. It has a similar scent.
Funny how an object can trigger a cascade of thoughts, memories, and emotions.
