Gram's locket wasn't even pretty. It was a dull silver circle with a scratched red stone in the center, but she never took it off. It hung from a chain around her neck, always.
As a little boy, I'd been allowed to fondle it while sitting on her lap, but only if I was careful. And I was never to try to open it. The lock was sealed shut from age, I was told. On its back was inscribed simply the letter "H," which I thought was funny, since Gram's name was Melinda, but the thought of questioning the discrepancy fled from my childish mind as quickly as it had entered it.
It was just a curiosity, but the curiosity grew when Gram died and there was no one to question about its history. Gramp--Mr. Carroll, as Gram always referred to him, Mr. George Carroll--had died when Mom was a little girl and Gram had no siblings.
She'd always been rather secretive about her past to her children and grandchildren alike. And the most secretive, yet obviously prominent, thing about Gram was her locket. The only time I remember asking her where she'd gotten it, she'd replied, "From the love of my life...before you came along." Then she squeezed and hugged me to her, pretending she was going to eat me up. And effectively changing the subject.
There was no question but that it would be buried with her. When the undertaker handed the locket to Mom, she looked rather shocked to see it anywhere but hanging around Gram's neck.
"This will go with her," she told the man. She turned it over in her hand and was somewhat startled to find that it had flipped open. Inside was a picture, presumably of Gram as a young woman, but worn so thin and pale that it appeared to have been touched often over the course of many years. The face lacked all definition.
"Strange," Mom said. She snapped the locket shut and handed it back to the undertaker with a sad smile. "Please put it around her neck. It was her most prized possession."
It wasn't until after Gram was laid to rest that we began to learn a bit about what she was like as a younger woman. Old scrapbooks and photo albums were found secreted at the top of her bedroom closet, along with boxes of letters, souvenirs from places visited and theatrical productions seen so long ago.
One picture showed her as a finishing school student, with a long skirt, a buxom figure, wearing a waistcoat and sporting high-piled hair. But what struck us funny was that she had a cricket bat resting on her shoulder, as did the lovely young woman standing beside her. They were smiling brightly at each other and stood with hip-thrust sauciness.
Another picture showed the girls close up, looking directly into the camera, their heads tilted to the side, leaning against each others'. I was just a teenager when Gram died and not at all interested in old pictures of girls in funny clothes, until Mom sort of gasped and leaned closer over the images.
"Look," she said, sounding in awe. "Gram's locket, but the other girl is wearing it."
I turned the picture over. On the reverse, it read, "To My Darling, Melinda. With Love Through Many Lifetimes,
Hillary."
Looking back now, I realized how quickly Mom had put Gram's belongings away, and why. A young boy just wouldn't understand what Mom felt she had discovered, probably didn't understand it herself. Such things didn't exist way back then.
"These were Gram's personal things," Mom said. "And we're going to respect her privacy."
She stored all the items in the attic, unopened and unread. As far as Mom was concerned, Gram's privacy would remain intact. I feel the same way.
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