Pawing through my closet this morning, I noticed a necklace that I hadn’t worn or thought about in many years. I thought of you today, Margaret Pugliese, and I wore your necklace.
I’m giving this to you, she said when she handed it to me, because nobody else would like it. So the necklace passed from her jewellery box, to mine.
Margaret was right. Mom-Mom, she was called. She was my grandmother-in-law. There really was no other woman in her family who would have liked such an old-fashioned necklace: A delicate gold chain attached to the tips of outstretched butterfly wings – filigree, and a purple rhinestone for the body.
Because she gave me this old thing, I always felt she was the only person in my married-into family who saw who I actually am. I took the runner, hand-stitched in blue thread, from the top of her dresser when she died. Nobody wanted it either.
I wonder if any of them ever think of me, the way I sometimes think of them. And I wonder if it matters if they do. (It doesn’t.)