Branches Book

BRANCHES

“Yeah, I don’t take it off very much. I don’t want to lose it, lose her again.” “You won’t. Here, let me help you put it back on.” I turned and lifted my hair up and the cool air made the hairs on the back of my neck spike up. The metal felt cold against my skin, but James’ hands were warm. The locket was back in its place and I could breathe again. I was quiet on the rest of the walk to Michael’s, thinking about how much time had passed since the locket had first become mine. … It was 11:03pm on December 2 nd , 2001 and my eyes were wide open. I know the exact time because I couldn’t stop looking at the orange clock on the bedside table to see how late it was. I was used to the rumblings of the city, but it was the soft tears coming from the bed parallel to my own that kept me up past my bedtime. My older brother Michael lay awake, crying with his hand clutched to his chest. The metal between his fingers glimmered in the soft light of the moon that came through the window. As his hand slowly opened up, I knew exactly what he was holding: my mother’s locket. I closed my eyes to remember the picture of the four of us inside, one of the few we had. In the photo, a 9-year-old Michael sat on my dad’s shoulders and my mother held me in her arms. Her golden hair flowed in the wind and her blue-grey eyes matched the color of the sea behind us. I thought my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, but she hated having her picture taken. She was the photographer of the family and constantly made Michael and I pose for photos, but was always too embarrassed when the camera turned to face her. My mother wore that locket every day. When I asked her why she said she liked having us with her everywhere. One morning it didn’t make it around her neck. I opened my eyes again and turned over in my bed to look at Michael. He must have heard me because for a brief moment we locked eyes. A month earlier, my father had been distraught over the loss of the very same locket, searching every nook and cranny of our tiny cramped apartment. Michael thought I went back to sleep, but I stayed awake, watching him fiddle with it all night long. I decided to keep quiet. I woke up the next morning to my father yelling from the next room. “Tessa! Michael! Get up, you’re going to be late for school! Again…” We had been late everyday of the entire school year. My mom had always been the one to wake us up in the morning. I looked at the clock and it was already 7:52. School started at 8. I rushed to get what seemed like thousands of layers over my large head and looked over at Michael, who was still fast asleep. I shook him with all the strength I could muster.

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