TheBanyanTree: Hidden Treasure

[pat.martin]

Six months after my grandmother's memorial service, I traveled to my
hometown and met with my brother, Greg, my sister, Marion, and my mother.
Granny's meager possessions were stored at Greg's house, and we needed to
divide them among us.

Except for a chest of drawers and the bronze urn containing Granny's ashes,
Greg's  spare room was empty.  We waited without speaking as he pulled three
cardboard boxes and a vinyl suitcase out of the closet and set them on the
floor.

Many years earlier when my grandmother became a permanent resident in the
hospital, her brother donated most of her furniture and ornaments to
charity.  Now, viewing Granny's few remaining personal effects made me want
to weep; there seemed so little to show for my dear grandmother's life.  An
ice-cold hand clamped around my heart as I realized that all visible
evidence of Granny's eighty-five years was quickly disappearing.

When I was a child, my grandmother's belongings fascinated me.  My favorites
included her New Home treadle sewing machine, a sailboat-shaped wooden clock
rigged with billowing, silver sails, and a miniature, snow-covered church
with steeple that played music when I wound the key.

It upset me that Great Uncle Dave hadn't consulted family members before
giving away my grandmother's things, but at least I had one of my favorites.
Granny taught me to sew when I was twelve.  Thrilled with my first neat line
of stitches, I asked her if she would give me her sewing machine when she no
longer needed it. My grandmother never forgot and some thirty years later, I
moved the mahogany-colored wooden and black wrought iron relic into my home'
s entranceway.

I hadn't seen the unusual clock or musical church in over two decades and
hoped to find them in one of the boxes.

I took a deep breath.  "Let's get started."

Mom, who usually talked non-stop, nodded and didn't say a word.

Marion's face was pale and pinched. "Why don't we each take one?" she said
as she moved one of the boxes aside and sat down on the floor next to it.

There was little conversation.  Like me, I suspected the others were
remembering Granny as they worked their way through her clothing,
correspondence, and inexpensive jewelry.

"What are we going to do with the clothes no one wants?"  Mom asked.

"If they're in good condition, we'll give them to the Salvation Army," I
stated matter-of-factly, although my stomach somersaulted.  I was reluctant
to dispose of anything that had belonged to Granny.

"Some of this stuff is no good," Marion pointed out, holding up a faded pair
of slacks with a broken zipper.

"I know.  I guess we'll have to start a garbage pile, too," I replied.

"Remember this?"  Tears filled Mom's eyes and her lips quivered as she held
up one of Granny's favorite sweaters: a soft pink turtleneck.

"Yes, she looked nice in it," I said, recalling my meticulously groomed,
young-for-her-age grandmother and her flare for stylish clothes.

Marion began untangling and spreading out the jewelry on the floor: a watch,
clip-on earrings, brooches, necklaces, rings, and a hand-tooled silver belt.
All of a sudden, she cried, "I can't do this."  She jumped to her feet and
hurried from the room.

I dug deeper into the box in front of me and found a tiny, cut glass jar of
rock-hard cream sachet. I lifted it to my nose - lilac, Granny's favorite
scent.  I discovered a tin canister stuffed with recipes - some handwritten
on scratch paper in my grandmother's sprawling script; others, yellowed and
as fragile as butterfly wings, clipped from newspapers. I reclaimed a
grapevine wreath of burgundy roses and gold ribbon that I made and gifted to
Granny.  Three pairs of never-worn cotton panties labeled with my
grandmother's surname caused me to pause. Granny taught me not to be
wasteful.  I didn't want the underwear, but I couldn't bring myself to throw
them out so I put off the decision and moved them to my take-home pile.

When Marion returned, her eyes were red-rimmed.  "I just want this over
with," she told us.  "It makes me sad."

We separated the family photographs that had once crowded the bulletin board
next to Granny's hospital bed.  All the boxes were empty and no sign of the
clock or the music box.

Examining the jewelry on the floor, I picked up a gold-plated herringbone
necklace Granny often wore. Except for a link out of alignment that
prevented it from lying flat, it was a lovely piece of jewelry. I spent
several minutes trying to fix it but no amount of jiggling, turning or
twisting moved the link back into place. Perhaps a jeweler can fix it, I
thought, setting it in the small box of keepsakes I planned to take home
with me.

A month passed before I felt ready to unpack the box. Cross-legged on the
bed, I spread out the family photographs, the letters and cards I'd sent to
Granny while she was hospitalized, the recipe canister and the underwear.  I
laid out the jewelry.  Immediately, I noticed that each link of the
gold-plated necklace lay in perfect alignment.  It looked brand new.

"What?" I sputtered as I grabbed hold of it and examined it closely.
"Impossible." I let the glossy, gold-colored chain trickle through my
fingers. It felt as soothing as tepid water against my skin.

Granny was trying to tell me something. I was certain of it. Fixing my eyes
on the circle of gold, I ran my fingertip back and forth along its smooth
surface; I tried to decipher its message.  I realized that the herringbone
necklace represented my life, and the out-of-place link, my grief.  Granny
wanted me to let go of my sorrow.  Like the necklace,  broken and then
mended, she wanted harmony in my life; she wanted me restored.

 "I love you, Granny," I whispered, clutching the chain to my heart.  "I
always will."