Bending down, I picked up the shards of the locket’s glass face. A sepia toned picture of my grandfather smiled up at me, as the tears lined the sides of my face. It finally happened. I knew she had enough of this family, and would leave for good.
With the plumes of incense smoke rising to the ceiling, I saw her favorite book on the recliner. Half-way through the poetry anthology she had read more than five times, I wondered if the bookmarked page had predicted the moment she would leave. She was like that after all. A word, a phrase, a scent took her away from the present and threw her into the need to get away from wherever she was.
In my hand, I saw the metal back carved into criss-crossing triangles on the locket. Mom had worn it last. The clasp, full of my sister’s curly hair, had been replaced twice. We rummaged through antique stores, and thrift stores to find a clasp the same tint of the metal. Somehow, I thought we picked out a worn-out piece, which would break just as easily. Yet, a new clasp would not do. Old things are meant to be preserved with ones just like them. My sister had said this over dinner. Mouthful of fried rice, she explained that it was betterthat she wouldn’t be young forever.
“I’m tired of not knowing,” she said tapping her chopsticks on the side of her bowl.
“You say that now,” our uncle said. “Doesn’t get better from here on. You get wise not invincible.” Lifting one of the vegetable dumplings from the middle platter, I watched him smile between bites at our mother.
A knock came from the door.
I placed the few pieces in my hand onto the side table. A vase full of daffodils, my mother’s birth flowers, stood there alongside two sets of keys. Whoever knocked the first time, waited patiently. Before I turned the latch, I peered through the peephole. A young kid with black bangs fraying out of his snapback held one of my sister’s shoes in his hand.