What the Jewelry Held

 My husband has been cleaning out our basement, where several tubs have been holding some of my parents’ old belongings. There isn’t much of monetary value in them, but there is a great deal of sentimental value.

One of the boxes holding memories

One of the tubs contained jewelry that had belonged to my mother, my grandmother, and my mother’s best friend, Jackie. It wasn’t the fine jewelry—that had already been dealt with. This was costume jewelry, tucked away in old cardboard boxes bearing the names of department stores from years ago. Some of those stores are still around. Others have disappeared along with so many other things from that time.

Some of those little store boxes still hold the pieces my sister and I bought as Christmas gifts when we were young. We saved our money so we could choose something for everyone. I don’t remember picking out each piece, but I remember the feeling of pride and knowing that they would love something because it came from us.

If you’re wondering why I have Jackie’s jewelry, it’s because she never had children. The Christmas after she died, her husband, Bob, came to our house carrying a bag of her belongings. He passed them out to my mother, my sister, and me.

Jackie and Bob weren’t related to us by blood, but they were part of our family.

As I lifted each little box from the tub and opened it, I realized that I didn’t remember most of the jewelry itself. What I remembered were the occasions surrounding it—the years when my family was still all together.

I could see the fire snapping in the fireplace and the sliced meats, salads, and macaroni and cheese spread across the table. I could hear Frank Sinatra and Andy Williams playing on the hi-fi.

I could hear glasses clinking, bursts of laughter, and—most precious of all—the familiar voices of the people who are no longer with us.

On New Year’s Eve, my parents usually went out to dinner with Bob and Jackie. One year, when I was sixteen, I was invited to a New Year’s Eve party where my crush would be. I remember my mother taking me to Vogel’s Department Store in Long Branch to buy the outfit I would wear. I was so excited about that party—and the photograph of us sitting together, with my face bright red, tells the story better than I ever could.

With my crush at that New Year’s Eve party

—the one Jackie wanted to hear all about.

My mother and Jackie picked me up afterward, still dressed in their New Year’s Eve clothes and sparkling jewelry. Jackie began questioning me the moment I got into the car.

“Was he there?”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Did he kiss you at midnight?”

My mother laughed and told her to let me breathe.

Jackie never had children of her own. My sister and I were her “kids,” and she wanted to know every detail.

As I looked through those boxes in the basement, I understood that it wasn’t really the jewelry I treasured. It was what had been happening around the women who wore it. The necklaces and bracelets were small witnesses to those evenings—to holiday tables, music playing, parties ending, and a sixteen-year-old girl climbing into a car  with two women who loved her.

The jewelry may have been costume jewelry, but what it held was priceless.

For just a few moments, as I opened those old boxes, everyone was together again.