Chapter 17 - Rosalia Forgot the Pendants
Mom was seventy-four when she asked why I was wearing Sofia’s necklace.
Not:
Why that one?
Why are you wearing Sofia’s necklace?
As though she had forgotten she gave me the other pendant decades earlier.
I stared.
Harold looked up.
He knew.
We all knew.
Memory had been slipping.
Small things.
Appointments.
Names.
A pan left on the wrong burner.
Then this.
“Mom.”
She smiled.
“What?”
“This is mine.”
She frowned.
“No.”
Her hand moved to her own neck.
Empty.
She had stopped wearing the A pendant years earlier because the clasp bothered her.
“I gave Sofia the S.”
“Yes.”
“And you…”
She stopped.
Fear.
I knew that expression.
The one that had once made her call me Lena.
The one from a lifetime of hiding children, names, histories.
“It’s okay.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“I know this.”
Harold reached toward her.
“Rosa.”
She pushed him away gently.
“I know my daughters.”
My throat broke.
“You do.”
She looked at me.
“Alina?”
“Yes.”
Relief.
Then tears.
Diagnosis came months later.
Early dementia.
No dramatic twist.
No cure.
Just medicine.
Planning.
Grief arriving before death.
Mom hated losing control.
Of course.
She had survived by controlling information for half her life.
Now information itself was becoming unreliable.
Harold remained steady.
He labeled cabinets.
Simplified finances.
Never infantilized her.
I loved him for that.
Dante offered security upgrades.
Mom told him to go to hell.
Good.
We used a door sensor because she wandered once at night.
She consented while she still could.
Important.
Then came the pendant question.
What happens to them?
S.
A.
Siempre.
Aquí.
Mom had the A.
I had S.
Sofia’s A pendant was still in Dante’s box for Leo.
Yes.
The chain-swapping history remained confusing.
Families.
Objects.
Meaning.
Mom called all of us together one afternoon.
Me.
Dante.
Leo home from college.
Harold.
She placed her pendant on the table.
“I don't want this becoming a fight.”
“It won’t,” I said.
She looked at me.
“You say that now.”
Fair.
Then to Leo:
“Do you want your mother’s pendant someday?”
“Yes.”
Clear.
Dante nodded.
Good.
Mom looked at me.
“You have S.”
“Yes.”
“I gave that promise to both of you.”
My eyes filled.
“I know.”
Then:
“When I’m gone, I want mine buried with me.”
I froze.
“Mom.”
“No inheritance.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Harold looked at her.
“Write it down.”
Mom smiled.
“Principal.”
“Correct.”
She did.
No competition.
No artifact collecting meanings forever.
One pendant would stay with Leo.
One with me.
One would leave with Mom.
That was allowed.
Objects did not need to remain available for descendants to prove love.
Months passed.
Mom forgot more.
Then less some days.
One afternoon, she called me Sofia.
I corrected her.
She became distressed.
The next time, I didn't.
Not because I accepted being my sister.
Because fact correction was not always kindness.
“Sit,” she said.
I sat.
“You’re too thin.”
I laughed.
Sofia was apparently also subjected to maternal food criticism.
Some things transcend memory.
Then Mom said:
“Where is Alina?”
I stopped breathing.
“She's okay.”
“Good.”
“Do you miss her?”
Mom smiled.
“Always.”
My chest hurt.
“I’m here.”
The words escaped.
Aquí.
Here.
Mom looked at me.
For one second, clarity.
“Lena?”
Then:
“Alina.”
Yes.
She touched my face.
“There you are.”
I cried.
No lesson fixed it.
Some losses remain losses even while the person is still sitting in front of you.
Mom lived four more years.
Harold beside her.
Leo visiting.
Dante bringing food she accused him of seasoning badly.
Bianca making her laugh.
When she died, we buried the A pendant with her.
Her choice.
No one objected.
At the memorial garden, Leo stood beside me.
Twenty-four now.
He wore Sofia’s pendant for the first time.
Not daily.
That day.
I touched mine.
S.
Siempre.
He touched his.
A.
Aquí.
Always.
Here.
Not forever.
Not ownership.
May you like
Presence.
Enough.
