No Knitting Content

It's a small box. One of those grey velvet boxes you get from a real jewelry store. Nothing really special about it. It fits in the palm of my hand. It's pleasant to touch. Meaty loves to stroke it. He likes tactile sensory experiences. He's a bit like me that way. Just a little box, but it weighs heavy on my mind.

Six or seven years ago when my Aunt was dying she gave my Mother a ring. It's a beautiful 3.25 caret Pink Tourmaline Ring. It is shiny and stunning. When I came to visit my Mother she let me borrow it. It was joyous to wear. It was larger than any piece of jewelry I had ever worn before. It was heavy and I was constantly aware of its beauty on my finger. I talked with my hands, waving them around so I could see the pink color in motion, hoping that others would see it as well and admire this small piece of beauty. Wearing such beauty made me feel more beautiful. It was fun to wear. I was a bit sad to return the ring to my Mother.

The next time I came home for a visit my Mom she gave me the ring. She told me she couldn't bring herself to wear it. I protested that my Aunt had given it to my Mom and she would want my Mom to enjoy it. My Mom told me she just couldn't do it and the ring would be better on my hand than in her jewelry box. I took it but told my Mom it was only on loan and she could have it back any time she wanted. She's never asked for it back. I've even had the ring resized for my finger. It's my ring and I love it.

I've never understood my Mother's reluctance to wear this ring. It is a beautiful thing that was loved by my beautiful Aunt. She wanted my Mom to have it because she knew my Mom had always loved that ring. It made me sad that my Mom couldn't enjoy it.

Now I understand.

Inside that small grey box is a matching pink tourmaline necklace. My Father bought it for my Mother. It is on the most delicate gold chain I have ever seen. It is so dainty and feminine. From a distance of a few feet the chain almost blends in with the skin so the pink pendant appears to be hanging there of it's own volition. Almost as if the jewel were part of the wearer's very skin. The effect is stunning. I've always loved this necklace. My Mom was so happy to receive this necklace and always looked so pretty wearing it. I've borrowed it from my Mom on occasion. I even think I've broken the chain and had to repair it before my Mother found out. It is another piece of beauty that makes the wearer feel more beautiful.

My Mother is dying. She's given me this necklace. Had she given this to me for my Birthday I would be overjoyed. Or for Christmas, or for Flag day. But she has given this to me because she is dying, and she won't need it anymore. She's given it to me now before her death. There will be no more occasions in her life where she will want to wear a pretty pink necklace. That makes me sad. Endings are sad.

I tried the necklace on yesterday. It was beautiful, but heavier than I remember. Unlike the heft of the ring that was a fun reminder of a small piece of beauty on my hand, the weight of the necklace was crushing. When I placed the necklace around my neck I could feel the weight of my grief hanging from that slender chain. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move to take the necklace off. I crumpled to the floor sobbing, my legs giving out under the weight of my pain.

The Greatest took the necklace off and put it back in the box.

The cost of owning this necklace is too high. The price is my Mother. I'd like to return it. Maybe someday I will be able to wear it and take pleasure in it's weight. Maybe I will enjoy the connection with my Mother, the way I enjoy the connection with my Aunt when I wear her ring. Maybe someday I will wear it and remember my Mom and smile. Or maybe someday I will give it to Pork Chop or Bird. They will thrill at owning something so pretty. They will enjoy the way it feels against their skin. They won't understand the price paid for this necklace, what owning it really means.

It means my Mother is dying.

Just a little grey box. But it sits on my dresser, larger than it's actual physical dimensions. I hate having it, but I can't leave it alone. I stare at the box. Touch it as if holding this box that belonged to my Mother will keep her spirit here on Earth with me. I want to wear it. I want to enjoy it. I want to feel connected to my Mom. But mostly I want my Mom.