Every person has on object in their life that is very precious to the, for me, it is my pearl necklace. They are small and round and a lustrous cream color with a pink sheen. They have a tiny gold clasp that holds the necklace together. My pearls tell a story than no other personal artifact can: my heritage. The pearls symbolized tradition and womanhood in my family’s life, and they were to be worn with dignity and pride. Every holiday, the girls of the family accessorized their outfits with the pearls given by our grandmother. They were something we all had in common: the thread that linked our generations together. I recall looking down at my Nana’s casket and I could almost hear her voice whispering in my ear, “Never let any one prevent you from being you,” her outlook on life. Taking my last glimpse of Nana, I gently rubbed her casket goodbye and then rubbed my pearls. Instead of clinging to my mother that day, I clenched to my pearls.
Wearing the pearls felt different that day, as I clutched them tight in my right hand and held my sister’s hand with my left. Even though the sun cast its rays onto the congregation of people on the clean cut grass, the picture-perfect environment was a misnomer. Sniffles and sighs drained my head, and I felt weightlessly heavy. Three years have went by, and my
pearls had the same luster as they previously had. The solace they provided will allow my grandma to remain immortal and let her essence be eternally with me. I now wear my pearls in a different light, knowing that I do not only wear them for myself but for my Nana. If I ever long to hear my Nana’s voice or smell her “Youth Dew,” perfume, I put my necklace on and indulge in the memories that come with it. In conclusion, my pearls are a mechanism that embody my heritage, my values, and the loss of my Nana.
Every girl in my whole family on my mother’s side owns an expensive set of pearls. They are gifted two sets, one for when...