Pandora's Box

Today was the day to tackle cleaning out my mother’s room. Much of it had been just as it was three years ago when I had to put her into assisted living. It had been several weeks since she 

died at the nursing home with me at her side. I have avoided going through her personal belongings and clothes for that would be forcing myself to face the fact that she was really gone. When I opened her closet door, I grabbed a stack of sweaters off the top shelf. The blue Joseph Horne’s shirt box had been hidden there since we relocated to South Carolina in 2008. Yellowed scotch tape held three of the corners together. As I pulled it down and laid it on the bed, I could still smell the mustiness, mixed with the distinct aroma of the cedar chest which had kept it safe for years. I felt strong enough now to hold back the tears until I had gone through her coveted collection of jewelry. Most of her costume jewelry had been given away to family members or sold at the estate sale. These special pieces that made it into the worn blue box were her “good jewelry”. Mom always told me, “These will be yours after I’m dead and gone. Then you can do whatever you want with them.” I had been thinking of having the diamonds that she had acquired reset into a ring for myself. After all her marriages, not one, not two, but three, there was plenty of stones to work with. Over the years, Mom and I would go through the jewelry and the other treasures in the cedar chest. It was a coming of age for me while I listened to her stories of boyfriends, lost loves and memories of my dad. She would go back in time and each ring or necklace told a story of joy or heart ache. I rarely got a glimpse of her softer, vulnerable side. It was a bittersweet time, then and now. Every time we opened the cedar chest the memories flooded in and washed over us. She had lost her husband and I had lost my dad. The carefully folded flag with 48 stars laid on the chests top shelf with military medals honoring my dad. His leather wallet, a Bulova watch and a harmonica were resting beside the flag. The OD green army blanket, which had acquired a few moth holes before it was sentenced to the cedar chest, was covering the bottom layers of treasures. Perhaps my mother fooled herself that this would preserve her memories of my dad and others. Under the wool blanket many important documents and other secrets were kept here. My dad’s Army Air Corp photo, with his name “ Kazmere Ki Kaczorek” embossed at the bottom was my treasure. He was a handsome man that I had only known through stories and photos. One photo I still carry in my wallet. He died from colon cancer when he was almost 40 years old. I was 1 ½ years old and my brother Gary was 3 ½. We were both adopted from a German orphanage while my dad and mom were stationed in Frankfurt. Blood didn’t make us brother and sister, adoption did. I always knew I was adopted as far back as I could remember. By the time I started school I was faced with many impossible questions that needed answered. When I was faced with filling out the forms required, I felt a knot in my stomach and my little hands would begin to sweat. This was a lot to process and understand for a very shy child.

Your full name? “Maryann Kaczorek” 

         “ Capital M, small a, no e, K-a-c-z-o-r-e-k” try learning to spell that as a 5 year old!

Middle name? What, I had no middle name! I was named after Ki's mother Mary.

Mother and Father’s names? My father was dead. Everyone else had two parents, like normal kids.

Where were you born? Frankfurt, Germany.

 These answers always made me feel like an outcast, how would I ever fit in. I hoped I wouldn’t have to explain I was adopted. I came to realize these challenges of my early life made me who I am today, a strong and independent woman. 

As the memories from the box of jewelry warmed my heart like the sun coming in through the window, I kept sorting through the gems and trinkets, letting my mom’s stories resurface and fill the void I had since she passed. As if I had never seen it, a gold band caught my eye, I couldn’t place it from any of the visits to the box, or remember the tale it held, it was just lying there in front of me. Where did this ring come from, my Grandmother? An aunt maybe? Had it been hiding from me all those years, or was it a ring my mother never revealed the story it held? Picking it up and looking closer, there was an inscription inside of it. How could I not have known about this one? Hurriedly, I laid out Ki’s band and engagement ring, the marquis from Bill, and the set from Jack. I grabbed my mom’s magnifying glass from her drawer and read the inscription clearly

 “Paul to Freida 1 -29- 60” … No, wait…this can’t be right. The knot was forming in my stomach as I flew off the bed straight to the file drawer. My hands were trembling, my legs were weak. I pulled out the folder of my father’s military records. I knew I was right! My dad had died on February 7th, 1960. My heart was pounding as I raced to the screen porch to show my husband what I found. “Dennis, you won’t believe this. I think my mother might have married the priest, Father Paul! Remember I told you he was more to my mom than just a friend. And if they were together, or who knows, it was while my Dad was dying in the hospital in Ft. Bragg! Who does this?”