I never imagined that a simple act of inquiry would reveal a lifetime of hidden meaning in the silent, dust-mote-infested attic of my boyhood house. I had known my grandmother for years as a colorful, almost frantic eccentric. Oversized bohemian scarves, jewelry that clattered like wind chimes everytime she moved, and clashing patterns made her a tornado. Her aesthetic, a loud, unabashed presence in a culture that frequently favored the muted and the predictable, caused affectionate humiliation for my younger self. The day I held her favorite necklace in my hands, a thick, elaborate piece of glass and silver beads that had previously looked like simply another element of her extravagant costume, however, changed everything.
The necklace was an oddity, made up of disparate parts that reflected her character. There were polished sea glass, turquoise beads, and hefty silver links that felt substantial and chilly in my palm. Months after her death, I was sitting on the attic floor, following the grooves of a particularly large, elaborate silver bead in the middle of the string. It felt different from the others. The bead appeared to be more than just a solid ornament due to a tiny, almost undetectable seam. The bead opened with a soft twist and a startling click, revealing a carefully concealed locket.
Inside was a small round snapshot, hidden away like a secret heartbeat. It was a fading, delicate, sepia-toned picture of my grandma as a young lady. With an expression of quiet, profound earnestness that made my breath catch, she was holding a baby—me. But what really made a difference was what was hidden behind the picture. A tiny piece of parchment that was neatly folded dropped onto my lap. The ink had started to ghost at the edges, but when I smoothed it out, I recognized her signature exquisite script: “True beauty is rarely seen at first glance.” Continue searching.
I had never really seen my grandmother, but those nine words were like a key that opened a door. Her “eccentricity” was suddenly reframed. Her outrageous attire and mismatched scarves were a silent protest rather than merely a lack of style. Her life had been an active protest against a society that accepts superficial assessments. She seemed to take a secret, joyous delight in the fact that she knew others would stop looking when they saw the clashing colors and the clattering jewelry. She was a lady who kept her most valuable possessions—her most intense thoughts, her most significant losses, and her most intense loves—secretly stored in the furthest recesses of her soul, accessible only to those who were prepared to “keep looking.”
When that message was found, the necklace was turned from a costume accessory to a mirror. I started reflecting on my own life and saw how frequently I had written off things that I didn’t instantly grasp. I remembered the times I had raced through experiences because they didn’t provide instant satisfaction, the times I had been harsh to my own “mismatched” parts, and the times I had judged people by their appearance. A lesson in the art of perception was my grandmother’s secret. Even from behind the veil, she was teaching me that sometimes the most important truths are those that call for perseverance and a readiness to see past the initial commotion.
As I learned more about her past, the “loss” she expressed in her email began to make sense. I found out about the years she worked three jobs as a young immigrant, wearing hand-me-down clothes that didn’t fit, and always had a bright ribbon in her hair or a fresh flower pinned to her lapel. In order to protect herself from the grayness of poverty and the coldness of being an outsider in a foreign country, she had employed color and texture. Her happiness was earned, not coincidental. I came to understand that each bead on that necklace symbolized a time when she had opted for complexity over simplicity and beauty over hopelessness.
I discovered that the necklace was a map of three generations when I stitched the years together. It contained the genetic material for her tenacity, the recollection of my childhood, and the developing outlook of my maturity. It was a tangible representation of an unwavering love that recognizes that time is a circular process rather than a linear one and that the child’s discovery ultimately derives from the knowledge of the elder. The object was valuable precisely because of its flaws—the slightly chipped glass, the tarnished metal. It served as a reminder that a life well lived leaves its mark, and it is those marks that give the tale its value.
The necklace is currently on my dresser in a velvet box. Sometimes I open it to touch that secret silver bead and tell me to slow down, but I don’t wear it. I’m holding off on passing it on to my own daughter until the proper time. I am not simply waiting for her to be old enough; I am waiting for her to be ready. The two are different from one another; one is a matter of years, while the other is a matter of spirit. When she gets to the age where society starts telling her that she should be easy to read and easy to label, and when the world starts to want her to fit into a box, I want her to inherit this memento.
She will open the locket on that day. “True beauty is rarely seen at first glance” is what she will read when she sees the picture of her great-grandmother holding me. Continue searching. She will experience three generations vying for one another in one instant through the use of color and silver. She will realize that her ancestry is one of unreserved uniqueness and secret depths. She will discover that her “eccentricities” are actually her greatest assets and that never giving up on finding the locket inside the bead is the key to living a meaningful life.
It is true that the most valuable things are those that are invisible to the naked sight. They are the lessons that ground us, the memories that keep us going, and the love that unites us despite the passage of time. My grandmother’s jewelry has evolved into a North Star and is no longer merely an ornament. It serves as a reminder that everyone I meet is a secret locket, just waiting for someone who is kind and curious enough to find the seam and open it. It taught me that in order to properly love someone, you must dedicate yourself to “looking” at them repeatedly until you discover the beauty that has always been there, concealed under a clashing scarf and a clattering strand of beads.