The Mystery Locket
I found a really old locket in the back of my drawer. I remember that it came from my grandmother’s house in Louisiana and was somehow connected to her or my dad, but I’ve long forgotten how. I have a bracelet he gave me, too. It was a gift to a girlfriend, someone he loved before he met and married my mother. A gift returned. I never return gifts. Nope. I wonder if this locket was another such gift, but I’m unsure. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I remember my grandmother pointing out the “B” engraved on the locket and telling me I’d probably love someone whose name began with B sometime in my life. She believed all kinds of stuff like that. I was never sure if it would be the first or the last name. I’m not even certain if that was a real conversation, or something I just made up in my head over the years. I’ve never once shown this locket to anyone. I’m not sure why. It looks as though it opens, but it’s sealed tightly now. Anyway, when I came upon it the other day, I immediately texted my cousin and sent her a picture of it. She’s an amazing writer, and we had been talking about secrets and stories. Soon, she sent me this about the locket. I love it so.
we’re texting back and forth, the mystery locket between us
in the time of viruses turning lungs to glass
I can’t be there, she can’t be here
so curiosity and whatever magic powers cell phones
sparks tendrils uncurling
miles and miles
around a tarnished silver locket,
flowers blooming at the edges of a heart,
a ‘b’ sunken in the middle
for bill? billy? it’s our first thought
a father, an uncle shared between us
she says she’s loved two bills in her life
the two bills, I say, a story if I’ve ever heard one
but she keeps it close, closed, like the locket that might not be
we can’t get it open, my fingers far away,
hers hesitant, wanting to break the secret but not the container,
and there’s nowhere to take it without risking death,
a hyperbole that isn’t quite, our respective face masks hung by the door
like jackets or keys, umbrellas, a necessary component now
when breaching the world outside
she has no idea where it came from, the mystery locket,
who it belonged to, whether ‘b’ is for a man, a woman,
if it was treasured or just accepted, but it’s here, still,
when so many things aren’t
I look at the picture she sent, an overhead light reflecting off the table
giving the silver a muted golden hue
I remember christmases before things got dangerous
the 8, 9, 10 feet tall trees in the entryway, making everyone look up,
a world of memories dangling from the branches,
ornaments pointed to, laughed at every year
as we stacked our love in shiny wrapped boxes
in whatever space we could find on the floor
before a round of hugs, kisses on the cheek, drinks passed,
it hardly mattered what we found when the wrapping paper was torn away
mingled voices, immediate soft touches when something someone said struck us funny,
the easy, careless freedom of leaning into a shoulder
and whispering thank you, I love you, I missed you, I’ll miss you —
I imagine a weight in my hand, the size of a locket,
we’ll probably never know why or who or when and if it’s never opened
that’s okay, we know what’s inside, the echo of a beat of a heart
saying here, take me with you when you go. By: Kate LaDew
