It’s not just a locket that I wear around my neck. It’s a thread of history that connects four lives, two who are no longer living and one with whom I’ve lost touch. It is the first thing I put on in the morning and the last thing I take off at night. I wear it around my neck in the same way I wear the silver bangle on my right wrist that was given to me when my grandmother died. She wore an armful of bangles, all of them divided between my mom, aunt, sisters, and cousins when she died. I’ve worn it on my wrist ever since. I was 16. The locket, which moved back and forth from Emery’s closet to mine after she initially discovered it, returned to my neck after she died. Just like the silver bangle, whose etchings of leaves and vines are almost smooth now after 54 years of wear, the locket has become a part of me.
The locket was a baby gift that was given to me by a dear friend when Emery was born. Mothers who give baby gifts to the mother and not the baby understand, and mothers who receive the gift for themselves and not their baby are grateful and appreciative. I met Donna, the thoughtful giver of the gift, at an exercise class when our firstborns were babies. We were both working on getting rid of the baby fat, which would be harder than we realized, as not long into our weekly exercise classes and friendship, we both discovered that we were pregnant with our second, due within weeks of each other. We became fast friends who needed each other’s help and support.
Parenting can be a lonely endeavor, and when the other person in the room, the one you’re retelling the story to, or seeking advice from, is two feet tall and not yet walking, adult company is a treasure. Donna and I would meet almost daily, entertaining our babies, hers a girl, mine a boy, while sharing notes on our pregnancies. Our second children, both boys, were born within weeks of each other. Donna was always my first call in the morning, as we’d make our plans for the day, deciding whose house we’d entertain our toddlers and babies in, eventually graduating to parks, playgrounds, and unique restaurants with quirky themes. We had a lot of energy and optimism and knew that the days with crying babies and rambunctious toddlers were easier when shared.
Too soon after our second babies were born, Donna’s family was transferred back to London, where they had moved from. I was devastated, but we stayed in touch as best we could. Phone calls were expensive and seldom made due to the cost, except in cases of urgent news, such as a pregnancy. Our calls to each other about our pregnancies with our third child came weeks apart, with mine being first.
When our third babies were just over a year old, hers a boy, mine a girl (Emery), Donna and her family were transferred back to the Kansas City area, and our friendship picked up where it left off. Donna shared in my joy of having a daughter, and in celebration of Emery’s birth, she gifted me a locket that she had found in an antique store in London. I loved the idea of a locket and remember as a child being fascinated by the necklaces that held the secret of tiny photos tucked inside. I found pictures of Emery and me, both at a year old, and tucked them into the small ovals and wore it daily.
Donna’s third, James, and Emery became playmates who shared many coffee dates with Donna and me while our older children were in preschool. They played well together. Life was good, and I had my dear friend back, at least for a while.
When Emery was in preschool, Donna moved again, this time to Canada. It was another difficult goodbye for me, and our communication waned as our youngest children started school and life moved on. Phone calls were expensive, and there never seemed to be enough time to finish a thought, let alone a letter, but I thought of Donna and her three children often.
When James was 17, Donna called me with the very unexpected news that James had passed away unexpectedly from rare complications from the flu. I was devastated and couldn’t imagine the pain she was in. Emery and I spent hours culling through photos of her and James, while recalling the many stories and memories shared. There were many photos, as I almost always had a camera around my neck for the “just in case” moments. Donna and I had a lengthy conversation on the phone, but I was at a loss for words. What do you say to a mother whose child has died? I wrote her letters. I sent her photos, but nothing felt significant in the acknowledgment of the weight she was carrying.
Emery discovered the locket in my jewelry box and started wearing it, hoping that because of proximity, it would eventually become hers. This was a trait she came by honestly. I had done the same thing with a ring of my mom’s that I took out of her jewelry box and started wearing because I liked it. Eventually, she gave me the ring, much to the dismay of my sisters, who were more honest than I was in their approach to obtaining items they liked.
Emery wore the locket a lot when she was pregnant with Arlo, her first child. She tole me that the sentimentality that came with her soon-to-be role as a mom made the locket feel more significant to her. After Arlo was born, I made it official and told her the locket was hers. No more borrowing and no more on loan. It was my gift to her, mother to mother. I loved seeing that bit of history around her neck.
Shortly after Emery died, Miles told me he wanted the locket to go back to its original owner, back to where it had started. His gesture touched me deeply, as we both knew how important it was to Emery and how hard it must have been for him to give it up so soon after she died. I was driving back to Kansas City the following day, and I knew that wearing it would feel like a talisman around my neck, a protector when I needed all the protection I could get. After he gave it to me, I waited until I was in my car to open it up. I assumed Emery would have changed out our photos for a photo of Arlo and Muna, but when I opened it, I cried. There in the little ovals of the locket were the black and white photo of me and the color photo of Emery; two little girls, a generation apart.
Every piece of jewelry I wear has a story and a history behind it, most that I’ve worn for decades. I wear history on my body that has meaning to me. The locket is on a long chain and falls below the necklace I’ve worn for over 13 years, which I started wearing when I began solo hiking in Colorado. The words Protect this Woman are imprinted around a small silver disc with a piece of turquoise in the center. Superstition, habit, or simply my love of the necklace has kept it around my neck. It now shares its space with the locket — a carrier of photos, a mother and a daughter, along with the memory of a relationship that came out of our roles as mothers and developed into a dear friendship of love and the unexpected connection of loss.
Almost every time I see my granddaughter, Muna, she asks me, “Can I see the little girls in the necklace?” And so I open the locket, and she gives me the same response she gave me the last time I opened it for her. “You are the girl with the curly hair, and the other girl is Mama.” Someday, I want to tell her, but don’t, you will wear it around your neck. You will open it to share the tiny photos that are inside. You’ll share it with your family or friends, or maybe a random stranger seated next to you who is curious. If it feels right, you’ll tell them who the girls are, then will quietly tuck the locket into your shirt, where it will lie next to your heart; next to your memories and the many stories that have been told to you about the two little girls, one your Mama and one your Laudie, and the strong connection of love between the three of you.