My Mother's Jewelry

A piece of my mother's jewelry. But which one? The topaz stone waiting to be reset? The wedding ring that no longer fits, even though her fingers are still at least two sizes smaller than mine? The myriad jewels shine up at me. I carefully pick up each item, examining it with the exactness of a gemologist, and replace it back into the original place, matching the direction and angle it rested in before I disturbed it. No pieces for me today. No ring for me. Even my pinky is too large for the rings designed for the once dainty fingers. Delicate chains with modest pendants look silly around my neck, like a grown up wearing a porcelain doll's delicate neckwear.

I look in each compartment of the pale pink box, to be sure nothing new has been added. But it's the same as before. Jewelry is rarely added, yet the pieces in the chest are carefully hoarded.

Footsteps walk down the hall. I listen to tell who approaches. Carefully placed, evenly spaced, graceful, with a little shift for the shorter leg. I quietly, yet with haste close the lid, admiring the metallic detail around the edge of the top, and wonder if the pink has always looked that faded. Was it designed that way? I flush the toilet at the same time I set the box back under the sink and ease the cabinet doors shut. I turn on the water and take my time washing the unseen evidence off of my hands. Open the door and walk into my parents' bedroom, the passageway back to my haven of books and  music.