My paternal grandmother passed away 10 April 2005. I have written here before about her, how dear she is to me, and how I miss, very deeply, her sweet ways and many kindnesses.

It has been a while since I’ve written about her, but she is never very far from my thoughts. I mentioned it in one of those posts above, but—and at the risk of appearing “overly Catholic” as I called it almost three years ago—I kind of maybe talk to her sometimes. I think to her, mostly. I feel her near me, often. Is this too much to hear? Am I oversharing? Should I go take some pills—or maybe let a few wear off—and check back in the morning?

Good morning.

My sweet little Jewish grandmother—the one whose Polish parents gave me my green eyes—and let’s go ahead and address this since you’ve been wondering: That is where they come from. Not from the milkman, the gypsies, or from any other hilarious and otherwise entirely plausible source over which we all could have a hearty good laugh and then get on with our blond-haired, blue-eyed, and otherwise entirely Aryan lives. Except, I have my dark hair and I have my green eyes and more often than not, I’ve heard, “You do have that Jewish look about you,” (though to be fair, I’m not sure the Baptists have a “look,” unless “quiet and disappointed disapproval” counts) my Polish great-grandparents, whose race on the 1920 and 1930 censuses is recorded as “Hebrew,” and whose names are Jacob and Sophie, gave them to me. They are mine.

So. When she passed from this world to the next just before Passover in 2005, my sweet little Jewish grandmother—you know, the one whose Polish parents gave me my green eyes—left to me the beautiful, delicate necklace she wore most often. It is a small, simple diamond solitaire on a 16-inch yellow-gold chain.

One Saturday in August, I made some plans. I took the necklace from its box and I held it in my hands. I have no way of knowing the last time she wore it. I do know that it hadn’t been cleaned since then, though, and I can tell you I hadn’t been able to bring myself to wrap it around my neck quite yet. I draped the chain through my fingers and moved them as the diamond danced across the backs of my hands. And, in my now-familiar, overly-Catholic way, I talked to my Grandma: thanked her, told her I missed her and loved her, told her my plans for the day and how they included her and her gift, and then I knew it was time.

I slipped the necklace around my neck, and the stone fell in to place. My green eyes filled with tears and the hairs on my arms and now-necklaced neck stood on end as I realized I was wearing my grandmother’s necklace as she had worn it last. It was around my neck, untouched since it had last touched hers. I spent some time pressing the stone against my neck, feeling it between my fingers, and putting it up to my chin. I delicately moved the chain against the back of my neck and felt wisps of hair move beneath the clasp.

I photographed the necklace as it was, I felt it as it was, and then I wore it as it was as I drove to Buckhead, a neighborhood of Atlanta, to Tiffany & Co.

At Customer Service, I was introduced to a kind woman I would later learn is named Wanda. She asked me what I know about the piece, and it isn’t much. I know my paternal grandfather—whose German, though also Hebrew, parents gave him and his brother their blue eyes and blond hair but even so could not survive the camps themselves because they could only afford passage for him—gave it to my grandmother. I know she wore it often. I told her it hadn’t been cleaned since she’d worn it last and she gave me a knowing, sweet nod.

Wanda examined the clasps and the setting and found them in good condition. She placed the necklace on the signature blue mat and told me that I wouldn’t believe the difference when she returned. I smiled, nodded, and took a seat. I could hear her in the back, cleaning the necklace. I heard her pause, often, and allowed myself to imagine that she was taking great care in handling something that means so much to me. Then, the noises ended and I heard the tap of her heels against the floor as she walked toward me.

She looked into my eyes, tenderly smiled and placed the mat in front of me. I took one look at the necklace and boys and girls: I literally gasped aloud. And by “aloud,” I mean, “aloud, loudly.” My right hand involuntarily leapt to my mouth, which found itself involuntarily agape, and my green eyes poured giant, hot, wet tears down my face. Before I could compose myself out of “gently weeping,” I worked myself into a full-blown sob, right there in front of Wanda, in front of the the Tiffany & Co. jewelry, china, and bridal registry, and in front of my Grandma’s clean, sparkling, gorgeous necklace.

It was brilliant. It shone beyond anything I could have believed, described, or imagined. In the milliseconds before the tears clouded my eyes, I saw the stone catch the light and sparkle in more ways than can be numbered.

Wanda still smiled. She asked me how long it had been since my grandmother had passed and I told her it had been a long three years. She asked me my name and introduced herself. She asked my age and asked if I am in school, and where. She asked what I am studying. Then, Wanda placed her hand over mine, clasped the two together tightly, looked into my eyes and said, “Ashley, you will do very well in life. Do you know why that is?” I shook my head, and sniffled, as I had been wont to do in the preceding minutes. “Because you have family values.”

And then I handed her a passalong card and a Book of Mormon. Except not really.

I thanked Wanda profusely and as I stared at the necklace on the mat, she reminded me that it would be ok if I decided that I might want to maybe wear it again. Maybe. Someday. Like now. Oh, right. That. It’s mine, huh? I gingerly let it fall against my neck again. I thanked Wanda again. She thanked me. We smiled.

I left Buckhead to drive down to Milledgeville to spend the weekend with Daniel. I wore the necklace, and throughout the rest of the day, I found myself frequently feeling for the stone against my neck. The way the brilliant stone is set, the pointy “back” lies against skin. I was struck, every time and sometimes to the point of emotion, at the realization that I was feeling, physically, something my sweet Jewish grandmother who gave me unconditional love, Keepsake ornaments, green eyes, and unprecedented acceptance also felt physically many days for many, many years.

It continues to sparkle. I have tried several times to capture its exquisite brilliance in photographs but none can do it justice. I wear it when I can. It is a small little thing. It’s delicate, and the stone is not large. It isn’t worth much in the sense that I might have you cut me a Star-of-David-bedazzled check (oh, is that just me?) for it. I would be doing my conscience a great disservice if I didn’t disclaim myself by telling the Internet that. Please don’t come looking for it. All you will find in the way of necklaces is mustard-yellow, giant-beaded atrocities from Target which clasps I have repaired utilizing paperclips. Tar. Get. Pa. Per. Clips.

But you know it’s a big deal when I tell you that I have no more words to describe how sentimentally, sweetly valuable this small piece of my grandmother is to me.

Today, Meadow and I spent the day at Gateway, shopping our brains out. We traversed the open-air mall. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

Making memories and laughing harder than I have in a really, really, really long time. I sincerely hope Med had a good time, but speaking for myself: I needed today. Needed.

We met Justin at the Beehive Tea Room in downtown Salt Lake for lunch/dinner and some raucous good laughter and debaucherous photography.

And only because I love you, Med:

JUSTIN! KISS HER!

Happy birthday, Medie. You are an amazing sister and friend. I couldn’t ask for better and I hope you have had some good days, and I hope you have a good year of health and happiness and many more laughs ahead of you.