Page 9 of A Legacy of the Light

Time passes by. I’m not sure how long I sit having conversations with her in my mind, but eventually the cold and wet seeps through the bottom of my jacket.

Taking a deep breath, the night air dances across my wet cheeks and my eyes feel puffy. I didn’t even realize I had been crying. I stand up, taking a moment to stretch out my stiff legs after being sat folded up for so long.

I rest my hand on top of the cold stone, whisper my goodbye to Mom, and make my way out of the graveyard, feeling a little lighter and temporarily assuaging the ever-present guilt. I go home telling myself I’ll bring some fresh flowers next time.

◆◆◆

Tuesday is as challenging as the day before, and plagued with thoughts of the man from the bar. There’s something about him that’s sticking in my mind. The encounter, if I can call it that, was brief but left an impression.

Thankfully Rach hasn’t mentioned my birthday. She knows I don’t like a fuss in the office, or that I don’t want to pretend to smile through my colleagues wishing me a happy birthday.

That didn’t stop her from sending me a voice note earlier this morning singing “Happy Birthday”at the top of her lungs. I also let slip to Elliot that it was my birthday, and he sent beautiful flowers to my apartment. The roses are waiting for me on the doorstep when I arrive home, and bring a reluctant smile to my face. I take a quick photo and send it to Elliot along with my thanks for his thoughtfulness.

Despite not having the worst day, celebrating my birthday is the last thing on my mind. Do I really need to give myself a pep talk to go for dinner with my Grandpa? Apparently so.

As I get changed into something more comfortable, I glance at the nightstand where the wooden box Grandpa gave me still sits. I haven’t opened it again since last week, but given it’s officially my birthday, I think I should wear it. I open the box, and am struck once again by its delicacy and beauty; the skilled craftsmanship that has gone into it.

I lift it from the velvet lining and fasten the chain around my neck, the pendant settling just below my collar bone.

As I stand combing through my hair, I notice the emerald glint in the light, and feel the metal warm against my skin. There’s a strange sense of rightness in me wearing it, as if it was always meant to be mine.

Reminding myself to thank Grandpa for the lovely gift, I finish getting ready.

“Happy birthday, my baby girl,” Grandpa says, folding me into a warm hug outside the restaurant.

“Thank you, Gramps,” I reply, pulling on the door to get us out of the cold. The waiter shows us to our table and we take our coats off before settling into our seats.

Grandpa gasps suddenly.

“What? What is it?” I ask in a panic. I look up at him and see tears in his eyes as he stares at the pendant.

“You’re wearing my gift.”

Not a question; a soft statement that’s edged with an unidentified emotion.

“Of course I’m wearing it, it’s beautiful. Where did you get it?” I ask.

“It was your Granny’s,” he says softly, glancing down at the table. “It’s a family heirloom that’s passed down from generation to generation. She would have wanted you to have it.” His voice is thick with that same emotion I can’t read.

I stare at him, a little stunned. He doesn’t often talk about Granny unless I specifically ask, and then he gets annoyed at me since we always end up at the same place.

“From her family in Scotland?” I ask, tentatively.

“Yes. She moved over to the States when she was young, after her father had died. This was one of the few items she brought with her. She wanted a fresh start,” he tells me.

Granny didn’t talk much about her past, only that she was born and raised in Scotland and left after her father had died since it was too painful for her to stay. She moved to Angelica and met my Grandpa soon after. They moved to Brooklyn after Mom was born, and the rest was history, as she’d say. She promised we would go and visit her homeland one day. We never did.

“Enough of that, anyway, we’re here to celebrate my Elsie-Pelsie!”

I cringe at the nickname, one we normally only use in private.

“Grandpa, we’re in public, can you not!” I joke. I’m happy to see the sadness disappear from his eyes.

“Fine, fine. How has your week been? You look different; a bit happier. Has something happened?” he asks, looking over the menu as if he doesn’t get the same thing every time we come here.

“Rach dragged me out on Friday night. We had a good time. She met a guy who seems really nice, and she’s not stopped talking about him.”

I didn’t want to tell him about Elliot, or that he sent flowers and had cheered me up more than I expected him to. Grandpa would get ahead of himself and immediately demand I tell him everything about Elliot and ask to meet him, and we haven’t been on our first date yet.