THE MISSING PEARLS
I have a catchphrase I use whenever something goes missing: someone stole
it.
For
instance, thirty-some years ago when my husband and I were moving into our new
house, a box of valuables went missing. I looked everywhere for it and
came to the conclusion that garbage men must have taken it. Which turned
out to be absurd and oh so wrong. The box eventually turned
up.
But now
this catchphrase is the only explanation for the empty mother-of-pearl jewelry
box that sits on my nightstand. This case held something special,
something personal, something beautiful and delicate—a double strand pearl
necklace that belonged to my bubbie.
I had
rummaged through every dresser drawer. I've looked under the bed.
I've searched the closet: on shelves of folded sweaters, inside shoes, between
clothes on hangers, and behind hats, under laundry baskets and bookbags.
I turned the bedroom upside down and inside out, looked high and low and knew
in my heart the necklace had been ripped off.
Over the
years, we've had painters and carpenters in the house. It never occurred
to me to hide the necklace. The pearls flowed freely from the jewelry box
like a beaded waterfall, but I never thought it would interest others, invite
others, tantalize and tempt. So, I beat myself up for being so careless,
for not guarding something that I loved and valued.
My husband
assured me it would show up. But he was wrong. Even though I have
no proof someone took it, I had a lingering suspicion that the necklace had
been lifted and I laid the blame on others.
You could
say buy another. But that's not the point. A new necklace would
never do. I want the necklace that graced my grandmother's neck.
My bubbie worked at the grocery store she and my grandfather owned. On her feet Monday through Friday. Never complained. She was a kind person who extended credit
to people for kosher meat, knowing they probably would never be able to pay
their bills. She rarely wore the necklace—she and my grandfather didn't
go out that much. But I like to imagine she reached for the pearls
whenever she went to synagogue. I can see her touching them lightly as she recited,
"Barukh Attah Adonai Eloheinu Melekh ha-Olam, O Lord our God, King of
the universe."
It's been
ten years and counting since I've last seen the pearls. I am crushed they
are missing—the pearls held memories of my grandmother. It was a physical
way I could connect with her.
I used to
imagine a package arriving. A small package without a return
address. A package wrapped in regret. I would rip it open and find the necklace. It would be
accompanied with a note: I believe this belonged to you.
But I know
this would never happen. The necklace was gone for good.
I think of
my grandmother and sweet memories arise and my skin tingles as if she's passed
right through me. Her heavenly voice says, "You don't need pearls to
have me nearby."
The small
jewelry box still rests on my nightstand. It's a reminder of loss and
love.
You might
think this is the end of the story, but there's more.
As you may
have guessed, I never received a package with a note and the necklace. Such is
the stuff of dreams.
But during
the Christmas break, I mentioned the stolen jewelry to my daughter and she told
me she had a double strand necklace. I was so wrapped up believing in my little
catchphrase, so convinced the necklace had been stolen that I had forgotten I’d
given it to her.
The
jewelry box is empty and it will remain empty, not because I don’t have other
items for it, but because it serves as a reminder. A reminder of something
missing and then found. Of something loved and valued. Of something special. Of
something personal, beautiful, and delicate. Of something passed down. My daughter keeps her great
grandmother’s necklace—and it belongs with her.
À la prochaine!