A Keepsake

Laurel lost her breath when she heard the news of her grandmother’s passing. 

She was off living her life—just a year out of university, the sweetness and freshness and newness of the world had not yet gone stale. She had gotten the most perfect little studio in the city, with ivy crawling along the fire escape and jasmine gathered at the window. She made it the perfect home for her and her goldfish, Kenickie, with paper star cutouts and pastel throw pillows. She worked as a waitress in the evening and commissioned paintings during the day; it was her dream life, and she owed it all to her grandmother.

Annie Oberlyn was her name, the most incredible woman in the world according to Laurel. She was the kind of grandmother from a storybook, with a waterfall of moonlight white curls and soft hands—perfect for baking peanut butter cookies and braiding hair. She always wore billowing floral dresses, and she loved to drink wine and to smile. Annie had practically raised Laurel. Her parents had always worked and travelled, needing a babysitter at the drop of a hat. Annie was always enthusiastic. She adored Laurel, and would spend hours telling her vivid stories of her life, protesting the Vietnam War, dancing in the rain, and falling in love time and time again.

Laurel never knew her grandfather, and neither did her own mother. According to her stories, Annie never really settled down or found the one. She always had a far away look at the mention of true love, though, like she’d missed something.

“There was someone,” she’d sigh, “before your grandfather. I know we’ll meet again.”

Laurel never learned much more than that, and then it was too late.

Or at least, she thought.

It wasn’t long after the funeral that Laurel made her way back to the suburbs to visit Annie’s house one last time. The will had been primarily Laurelized, so she was free to go through all of her grandmother’s belongings and do with it as she pleased. The idea of being in charge of something so sentimental, so private, daunted her at first. The idea of being in Annie’s home—her own second home—without Annie herself made her feel sick. But, upon her arrival at the little gray cottage, she was overwhelmed with a sense of warmth and calm. Annie was here, she knew it.

The day became one of joy and healing. Laurel played The Cowsills on Annie’s old record-player and put Annie’s favorite lavender potpourri on the old stove. She went through photo albums and clothes and trinkets, carefully saving and sorting while having silent conversations with her unseen companion.

Her favorite thing to go through were the boxes of holiday decor in the attic. 

The attic was already the most lovely place; it was a cold room, but not in an eerie way. The only light source was an ovular window right at the peak of the roof, but a glass mobile hung in front of it and sent colored beams of warm light in all directions. 

Annie had loved any excuse to decorate or dress up, so there was a lot to go through. Laurel laughed at the countless dancing skeleton figurines for Halloween, the dozens upon dozens of handmade Christmas ornaments. There was even an entire box dedicated to Valentines Day, which Laurel had always found adorable.

Inside was a roll of paper hearts Annie would string along the kitchen walls, a set of pink glassware and china, a set of costume shop Cupid’s wings and a bow and arrow to match. 

And then, something Laurel had never seen before.

It was a wooden box, perfectly shaped into a heart. It was painted a bright, candy apple red, dulled only by a coating of dust along the edge. 

Laurel grimaced and let out a laugh, imagining there must be old chocolates hiding inside. She opened it cautiously, prepared for a less-than-pleasant sight. However, it wasn’t what she’d expected at all.

There were three things inside the box, none of them rotted chocolate.

First there was a necklace, probably the most beautiful piece of jewelery Laurel had ever seen. The rose-gold chain was thin and delicate—the kind of chain that’s always impossible to untie once caught in a knot—and dangling from it was the most perfect dewdrop of an opal.

Second, there was a photograph. It was yellowing and frayed at the edges, but still clear. Laurel knew from the first glance that it was Annie, but not an Annie she ever knew. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty years old, dressed in a patchwork jumpsuit with her silky dark hair woven into a braided crown. She was beaming, eyes shining behind her wire rimmed glasses. The happiness in her face was unreal—and, Laurel realized, it must have been because of the other person in the photo. A woman, even taller and more willowy than Annie, dressed in all black. She was all silk scarves and rings and combat boots and charcoal, with pale skin and dark eyes. Looking at the woman, Laurel felt a buzz in her chest, something like familiarity and knowing. The woman had Annie wrapped up in her arms and was kissing her shoulders. No doubt, this was a lover’s embrace, and Laurel knew without confirmation that this was the someone she’d so often heard of.

And finally, the most curious and shocking of the three: a baby pink envelope that smelled of rose, addressed to none other than “My Lovely Laurel.”

Laurel inhaled sharply. Tears began to drip from her eyes, just because she could practically hear Annie’s voice in those words. With shaking fingertips, she opened the letter.

My dearest, sweetest girl,

I wish I could give you the longest of hugs right now, but you reading this letter means that won’t be in our cards for a long while. Whatever happened to me, whether it was sudden or a long while coming, may have left your world feeling a bit strange. But I promise you that I’m all right. In fact, I am flying—because I’ve been reunited with my someone. Over the years I’ve no doubt let mentions of her slip from my lips, but I never spoke of who she was because truthfully, I think I may have been put into a home of sorts. Because all those years ago, fighting for peace and finding myself all the while, I fell in love with Death. She was staying in our realm of existence very frequently in those days; she had a job to do, though she hated it with every inch of her body and breath. She joined one of our little tent camps one day, a cool morning dripping with dew, and I fell in love with her as soon as I saw her. But of course, it couldn’t last. I knew however, because of who she was, that I would see her again one day. This necklace, this photograph, this beautiful box; this is the only keepsake I had of her. Now that I’m gone, I hope you treasure it. I know I always did. I can tell you without a doubt that I am all right. I am in love, I am safe, and wherever I am is no doubt full of joy. I love you my Laurel—continue to live your life with the beautiful, unapologetic vigor that you always inspired me with. I’ll be cheering you on.

We both will.

With my entire heart,

Annie.

Laurel sat in silence for a few moments, but then her sobs turned into laughter. She was full of joy and hope and relief. 

Love.

What a beautiful thing.