Many of our family heirlooms, like the clan that they belong to, are dysfunctional.
There is the nineteenth century armoire whose hinges have rusted, lending its doors a vocal shriek whenever they are peeled open. The silver set is missing three forks and a spoon. Others have disappeared entirely: my mother swears that she has her father’s Columbia ring stashed away in a safe place, but I’m skeptical.
The jewelry box is among these dysfunctional but sentimental items. It was my great-aunt’s when she was a girl, and though the paint has faded, the outlines of ballerinas and whimsical twisted flower chains can be seen on its surface. It was obviously once a lovely piece, but shows its eighty years of use.
It is what lies inside that is of interest. There are ancient pearl earrings nestled in the flaking green velvet like eggs in a verdant nest. A snake-like, tarnished silver chain carries a locket with a portrait of a man who was not my great-aunt’s husband. There are rings in various stages of completeness, ranging from a red glass ring missing one tiny rhinestone, to the now-bare cocktail ring that once supported a garish yellow stone.
Above all of these items reigns a tiny ballerina who dances when the box is opened, accompanied by a tinny rendition of the Swan’s Theme. Her face, once painted, is now bare, but spots of pink remain on her tutu and delicate porcelain slippers.
I fell into the line of possession much too early. I was ten years old when my great-aunt’s house was cleaned out and her possessions distributed as her will specified. I can recall the surprisingly soft feeling of the battered wood as the jewelry box was placed in my hands.
I turned it over in my hands and had my finger on the key at its front when my grandmother knelt down to stop me.
“You must never lock this,” she said. “That key hasn’t budged in years, so once it’s closed-” She gave a warning look, her eyes magnified to comic effect by her bifocals.
The box was placed high on a shelf in my room, quietly gathering dust until I was twelve and searching for a Halloween costume. I wanted to go as a Gypsy, and was convinced that an absurd costume ring from the jewelry box was necessary for an air of authenticity.
I plucked the ring from its pillowy patch in the box and placed it on my ring. I admired the way it reflected in the light, glowing with a demonic fire that was well suited to the occasion.
Still enchanted by the ring, I shut the box and instinctively turned the key.
The hair on the back of my neck raised as I twisted the key, both from horror at the sudden realization of my error and the noise. It was a high-pitched mechanical crunch, the sound of rusted gears screaming as they moved against each other on their final note.
We tried everything short of breaking the box open in an attempt to rescue its contents. While it holds mostly costume jewelry, I miss the silky chains and textured bracelets that grace its interior.
I’ve often wondered if I will break the box open someday, a violent Aladdin before an uncooperative Cave of Wonders. Or maybe, the worn beauty of the box’s exterior will satisfy my need to see its contents once more. But for now, it sits clamped shut by the rusty teeth of its gatekeeper, a locked reminder of my wrong turn.
There is the nineteenth century armoire whose hinges have rusted, lending its doors a vocal shriek whenever they are peeled open. The silver set is missing three forks and a spoon. Others have disappeared entirely: my mother swears that she has her father’s Columbia ring stashed away in a safe place, but I’m skeptical.
The jewelry box is among these dysfunctional but sentimental items. It was my great-aunt’s when she was a girl, and though the paint has faded, the outlines of ballerinas and whimsical twisted flower chains can be seen on its surface. It was obviously once a lovely piece, but shows its eighty years of use.
It is what lies inside that is of interest. There are ancient pearl earrings nestled in the flaking green velvet like eggs in a verdant nest. A snake-like, tarnished silver chain carries a locket with a portrait of a man who was not my great-aunt’s husband. There are rings in various stages of completeness, ranging from a red glass ring missing one tiny rhinestone, to the now-bare cocktail ring that once supported a garish yellow stone.
Above all of these items reigns a tiny ballerina who dances when the box is opened, accompanied by a tinny rendition of the Swan’s Theme. Her face, once painted, is now bare, but spots of pink remain on her tutu and delicate porcelain slippers.
I fell into the line of possession much too early. I was ten years old when my great-aunt’s house was cleaned out and her possessions distributed as her will specified. I can recall the surprisingly soft feeling of the battered wood as the jewelry box was placed in my hands.
I turned it over in my hands and had my finger on the key at its front when my grandmother knelt down to stop me.
“You must never lock this,” she said. “That key hasn’t budged in years, so once it’s closed-” She gave a warning look, her eyes magnified to comic effect by her bifocals.
The box was placed high on a shelf in my room, quietly gathering dust until I was twelve and searching for a Halloween costume. I wanted to go as a Gypsy, and was convinced that an absurd costume ring from the jewelry box was necessary for an air of authenticity.
I plucked the ring from its pillowy patch in the box and placed it on my ring. I admired the way it reflected in the light, glowing with a demonic fire that was well suited to the occasion.
Still enchanted by the ring, I shut the box and instinctively turned the key.
The hair on the back of my neck raised as I twisted the key, both from horror at the sudden realization of my error and the noise. It was a high-pitched mechanical crunch, the sound of rusted gears screaming as they moved against each other on their final note.
We tried everything short of breaking the box open in an attempt to rescue its contents. While it holds mostly costume jewelry, I miss the silky chains and textured bracelets that grace its interior.
I’ve often wondered if I will break the box open someday, a violent Aladdin before an uncooperative Cave of Wonders. Or maybe, the worn beauty of the box’s exterior will satisfy my need to see its contents once more. But for now, it sits clamped shut by the rusty teeth of its gatekeeper, a locked reminder of my wrong turn.
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