The house was almost completely packed away. At times she heard muttering in the kitchen, her mother filling the stale air with complaints of “I can’t breathe in this damn house, I can’t breathe!” as she shuffled dirt around with a broom. The house itself was suffocating, filling every corner with memories and time. Her grandparents’ room was bare of residue life now, boxes were the only furniture, and Edie moved onto the final part of the room still left untouched.
Clearing out the lower drawers of the armoire was simple enough—just old makeup, brushes, pins, other little things. She sampled perfumed powder, read the labels on half-empty pill bottles. In the top drawer Edie found an old tin bowl, filled with jewelry. Piece by piece she removed each earring, each bracelet, held them up into the light, watched them glitter. When she saw a gleam of white, she paused. With care, Edie dipped her fingers into the bowl and retrieved the pearl necklace. She held it in front of her. Then, she pulled it towards her and clasped it closed behind her neck, letting it rest against her collar bone. She looked into the armoire’s mirror, tilting her face left and right, watched the way her image changed with the angle of the light.
Her grandmother smiled at her—in that way that she did—and Edie could not help but return it.”
Natasha Yglesias is a recent graduate of Sarah Lawrence College, where she obtained her Bachelor of Arts in Fiction Writing. She is currently working as a reader for Post Road Magazine, and as an editorial assistant at Pearson Education.