Those earrings. Given to me by my parents when I was the same age as her. Made from a piece of jewellery my mother had broken up and made into a first pair of “good earrings” for me. Real stones. Diamonds and rubies. Worn for special occasions. Treasured as “proper jewellery”.
Kept by me, hidden in the little silk cloth bag they came in. Not worn for a long time because for some reason the memories of the giver made it hurt to even bring them out and look at them, much less wear them.
Now worn by her. It feels right. They look right. And the giver of those earrings would, I think have approved, and in fact, I see the face of my mother, in the wearer of those very earrings. I wish she could be here to tell her granddaughter she likes that a pair of precious earrings kept for so long are finally being worn. It seems fitting now she is old enough to appreciate them and has had her ears pierced
I am not a person who puts great stock in things or belongings but I have a small stash of precious things I have kept, as a motherless daughter, with memories entwined in each item. To keep, to hand on, to remember. There is very little left I have of my mother other than memories and a few things I have kept. Some of those things will be given to my children.
Those earrings. They are where they should be. I think my mum would have approved.
