Fingers uncurled
and palm outstretched;

Brow furled
and lips upturned;

An oblong, crested, silver pendant
rests in the valleys I have created;

Tarnished, now half-silver plated, beaded
chain half-dangles below—

A gift from my mother,
and from her mother before,
and from her mother before,
and from her mother before.

Fingers curl one by one
following the familiar vintage ridges,
relearning what is already known to each.

Each then retrace its steps—
the earth calls to my locket, as she has done before;
this time, it answers—becoming one with the dust that created it.

My daughter’s palm is empty;
She will not carry it, as I have.