On Sundays, they gathered. The place was cramped, never fancy, except for her old “real wood” furniture and that ropero, her secret altar. Inside, neatly folded linens she barely used, reserved for special occasions. Bottles of perfume, half evaporated, some in their original boxes. Jewelry that, surprisingly, was not fake but rather old, striking jewelry pieces she had gracefully accepted from the many suitors of yesteryear.
I’d sneak a peek now and then, but she never let me hold any of her things.
One day, I took something, out of sheer curiosity and to take to school the next day. Not out of need, not even desire, I just wanted to hold something of hers and, yes, show it at school. It was a thin, gold chain. I just grabbed it, unaware of its significance.
Some relatives were visiting and they all tended to linger in the bedroom where I was, transfixed. The chain had crumpled into a knot and, panicked, I imperceptibly dropped it into a glass jar nearby, coughing nervously to cover what I was sure would cause an earsplitting noise.
“No one noticed. I’m good,” I reassured myself, a bit shaken.
Half hour passed.
“Mila, come to the kitchen at once!”
She was standing near that huge, cheap wall calendar.
April: Grand Canyon National Park.
There’s a place grandmother could not even fathom.
The glass jar sat on the kitchen table.
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