I joke with my mom that soon I'm going to stop packing whenever I come to visit in Virginia. I already stopped bringing too many accessories along because she has the most fantastic jewelry collection. I borrow everything from her, though--tops (especially the thin white one with grey birds printed across it), sweaters, necklaces, sports bras, socks, those gold earrings with the light pink stones and the frilly outline that looks like the edge of a doily.
But there are things I don't borrow. Her class ring from high school, gold with a green stone on top; or her wedding rings, which I used to slip on every now and again in the past and admire from my own hand. And then there are things that I borrowed so much that I now own them myself.
When I was even younger, I used to rummage through her jewelry box, trying things on and imagining them in the places they had been before they found their eventual home, tucked away in a box with other shiny memories. My grandmother's wedding ring was the thing I wore most often, and when I turned eighteen or perhaps graduated from high school (I can't even remember the occasion now), my parents gave it to me as a gift.
It originally had three stones, and a few had been missing, so they had it re-sized and repaired the setting with sapphires, my birthstone. It was my grandmother's, and then it was my mom's, and then it was mine.
Sometimes material things don't matter. But other times, they do.
This post is in response to the following prompt: "Write about your mother's jewelry. Write about her shoes." (From Old Friend from Far Away, page 153.) If you've written a response of your own, please share it below in the comments!
P.S. Visit this post for next week's prompt.