PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

My grandmother Laura is the epitome of a hard worker. If I didn’t know her, I would say she was 55 instead of her actual 74. Every day she wakes up at 5 a.m. to go walking to the park. Then she showers and walks to the same church where everybody knows her. On weekdays she goes to work in a political office and on Sundays she spends hours cooking lunch for the whole family. Since I can remember, she has always had this golden, heart-shaped locket around her neck. It’s the size of a penny and is suspended on her chest by a silver chain. When I was younger, I thought it was only a heart-shaped necklace. One day I asked her, “Grandma, how come you never take off your necklace?” She smiled and explained to me that it was not just a necklace, but that it was locket. That was the first and last time I saw her take it off. She turned it over on her palm and revealed a small, almost unnoticeable, lock that you could turn with your fingernail. Just like that the locket popped open and inside were two gray, old photos; a young, pretty woman and a man with a serious gaze, much older than her. The man had a long mustache and military uniform. Visor cap on his head and medals on his chest. Amused by my perplexed look, my grandmother kindly explained to me that that girl in the photograph was herself, and the man on the other half was my grandfather. That was the first time I ever saw my grandfather. He had been killed on the field when my father was 21, serving as a pilot for the Mexican air force and as a cop. Until that moment I hadn’t even wondered why I didn’t have a grandfather. I guess I was just too young.  I bombarded her with questions about where he had worked and what things he liked or disliked. My grandmother gladly answered me until my attention was caught on something else. I can’t remember what but it wasn’t important. My grandmother stood up and put back her golden locket where it belonged, around her neck. In my 20 years of life I have never seen her take it off a second time and sure enough, every Sunday as I hug my grandmother, I feel the solid metal poking my chest. That golden memory that is physically minute but sentimentally immense.