When the balmy summer months hit, the tarnished silver sticks to the skin against my sternum, like a magnet pulling towards my heart. I subconsciously reach for the small, feeble ring that keeps the pendant dangling from its chain. It's a wonder to some why I haven't looked into a sturdier set-up, but obsessive lookout and needle-nose pliers seem to do the trick. The ancient chain is tarnished too, and carefully braided. There is an everso- slight undoing in the braid where the chain joins a clasp stamped "925." Every now and then, I come to the realization that the pinching sensation on my neck isn't the sting of a bee or bite of an insect, but the tension of hairs caught in the fray of silver. One rotational adjustment, and three or four are lost.
We sat cross-legged in the shaded grass next
to one another.
"Your skin looks like my skin."
I told her that it must be the Armenian blood.
"So you're a ‘halfy' too?" I knew that her
mom was born in India.
"No, a quarter."
"Oh, never mind. A quarter doesn't count."
The scent of freshly prepared dolmas
permeates the warm, heavy air of the dimly lit
dining room. Bowls of dried apricots and plump
dates are passed around the table. Candles
flicker, sending streams of hot wax onto the
intricately laced tablecloth. Pistachio shells
crack. The juice from sweet peppers sprays
with each bite. The names Farhad, Morteza, and
Bahram, as common as Tom, Dick, or Harry,
are uttered among muffled fragments of Farsi.
Quarters clank. Fingers tap and dark eyes dart
in anticipation.
I am seven years old and the distance
between us is unbearable.
Papa may be Armenian by blood, but he
worships poker like the Iranian men of his
birthplace. There he sits: Armenian parents, born
in Iran, an immigrant to the United States with
every intention of raising an American family
and blending in, save for this ritual that I watch
from around the corner.
The American Dream, right?
Unfamiliar words float between delicate
spirals of steam from cups of green tea. Cards are
passed, bets are made, and the pile of quarters in
the middle of the table grows.
I remember when my mom gave me the necklace that had been her father's. It crumpled into my hand the way I crumpled to the floor when I heard that he had become too weak to go on living another day. Mastodon ivory, she told me, reading my quizzical look. A teardropshaped pendant of mastodon ivory encased in silver, nearly the same size as a quarter. Mastodon ivory. Four million years of history for an elephant, and all I have is this necklace.
I never told her, but I will. A quarter does
count for something. This something became
everything when everything else died right
along with him.
I could get a new chain. One that isn't
tarnished. One that is braided to perfection
and refuses to tug on my hair. But what lack of
character. I could buy a new ring from which
the pendant could hang. Maybe even a double
ring for extra security. I wouldn't have to
constantly reach for the teardrop. But then my
hands would miss the smooth texture of rubbed
silver. Why don't I just keep the necklace hidden
in the depths of a jewelry box? Because then I
might forget about it and the way the quartersized
pendent reaches for my heart whenever I
wear it.
If I lose this, I might just lose the rest of him.
And myself.