The Heirloom

The sandalwood box in my safe. Exquisitely carved and hypnotisingly fragrant.

As a little girl, I remember my mother keeping her gold ornaments in it. On festive occasions, she would let me pick the jewellery for her. She would adorn me too with one of the lighter ones. 

Sitting on the bed, I would wait for her to open her wardrobe. As soon as she did, the heavenly smell of sandalwood would creep through, as if trying to escape the airless interior. She would pull out the jewellery box from under the pile of saris. I would be fascinated, and for many a year, I was under the impression that the wardrobe contained some secret abyss in which was hidden the box.

Carving of flowers and vines on the outside, soft red velvet inside, it's hinges made a light creaking sound as it opened. The lid had a mirror on the inside and the lock would click as it closed shut. It was filled to the brim with gold necklaces and bangles. The solid gold bangles were my favourite. I would put on the bangles and they would slip off my thin wrists. Mother would smile and tell me to have patience. "They will all be yours one day dear."

I would let my fingers dance on the flowers. The smell would rub off onto them. It would remain on my fingers even hours later, and I would be vary of washing them lest the scent would disappear. The little mirror would hold me in a spell. I thought my reflection looked much more prettier in this than in any other mirror.

Mother would tell me that one day she would give the box to me, just as her mother had passed it on to her. All my childhood, I dreamt of possessing the box and its contents. It's been years now. The exterior is chipped here and there, the mirror is cracked and the lock is broken. And my mother is gone. 

The sandalwood box stands empty in my safe. It looks regal, occupying the centre of the bare safe. As I open it, the sweet scent fills the room. Memories come rushing through. I press it tight to my chest. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, filling myself with the fragrance. I can smell my mother too. For a moment, I felt her arms around me in a reassuring gentle hug. 

Placing the box on the bed, I sit gazing at it. I let my fingers run on it, tracing the flowers. I slowly open the box. The hinges cry out. The velvet which was once deep red is slightly faded, but is still as smooth as it once was. Now that the box is empty, I realise how deep it is. The mirror is cracked, and as I look at myself, I couldn't suppress a smile recollecting all the times I pretended to be the prettiest girl. Now all I can see are my wrinkles in their full glory. 

Tears in my eyes, I feel overwhelmed. The empty box. My precious memories. An invaluable heirloom. It is time to pass it on.