Great-Grandma Helen’s Jewelry

Illustration by Samuel King

My grandmother–who makes stained glass jewelry, bakes enough to feed a sizeable village for every family get-together, and enjoys reruns of National Geographic documentaries with a cup of Earl Grey tea–is getting older. Toward the end of every visit, she encourages us to put Post-it notes on our favourite belongings of hers. My mother has requested the painting above the stairs (the one whose eyes follow you regardless of where in the room you stand), my sister has staked her claim on the ornate lamp in the dining room, and I’m hoping to hang onto her extensive souvenir spoon collection. Last Thanksgiving, my grandmother sifted through her jewelry box. I suppose saying she sifted through her many, many, many, many, many jewelry boxes would paint a more accurate picture. 

Among the vast treasure trove was my Great-Grandma Helen’s collection of bracelets and rings–pieces I had never seen anyone wear, tucked away in velvet boxes and drawstring pouches. Their sparkle seemed impatient, as if they had spent decades waiting to be shown off.

I didn’t know Great-Grandma Helen all that well. What I do know is that she was a single mother at a time when it certainly wasn’t easy to be one. She was known to be stern, practical, and no-nonsense. Later in life, she went back to school, carving out a path forward with an almost quiet determination. I like to imagine that these pieces of jewelry were small, deliberate indulgences in a life that otherwise asked so much of her.

Since sporting Great-Grandma Helen’s shiny collection, I’ve worked hard to live a life they should’ve witnessed with Helen. Wearing it, I voted, presented my thesis, applied to law schools and Master’s programs, graduated university, hiked Machu Picchu, ran a half-marathon, and saw my favourite band perform live (the opal ring very intentionally matching the top I wore that night, of course). Donning her jewelry, I’ve spent a number of potlucks, wine nights, puzzle assembling sessions, and evenings out in familiar (and unfamiliar) cities with the people I love. 

Sometimes I catch the flash of a bracelet under beaming lights on a night out or twist a ring around my finger during a hard conversation and wonder what Helen would think. I hope she’d feel like the things she worked so hard to buy are living the life she imagined. And I hope she’d laugh—really laugh—if she could’ve seen her engagement ring on my hand this fall, inches from my face, as friends propped up my legs for a keg stand during homecoming weekend.

Her jewelry was never meant to sit in a box. It was meant to reflect flashing lights, to clink against wine glasses, to go out into the world and get a little scuffed. It was meant to live loudly. So I wear it that way, for the both of us.