Faded Color

        The lace slowly slipped off the edges of the filigree border. Margie fingered the ivory curves of the cameo's neck. Every time she turned the cameo over in her hands she could picture her mother dancing around the kitchen in a flowing green overcoat. Each time Gwen wore that coat the cameo was on the lapel. It's as if the cameo was an observer in their lives, the quiet woman perched upon her mother’s chest watching their every move. The cameo was there when her mother slid into the passenger seat of their used four-door sedan, it was there after they finished their garage-sale hunting and it was there with her mother's effects when Margie claimed her belongings from the coroner. Margie wrapped the scrollwork of the cameo back up and slipped it into the carved mahogany jewelry box that housed her mother's favorite pearls and her slim gold wedding band. She didn't know how these items would look on her mother now, but she knew what her mother's final wishes were and there was no way Margie could ignore her mother. Nobody could ignore Gwen’s manic energy, infectious laughter or flaming red hair.

          Margie slid the polished edges of her mother's jewelry box on to the passenger seat and then paused to check her makeup in the rear-view mirror. Her mother always told her that appearance precedes you when you walk into a room and Margie was not going to walk into the funeral without the face Gwen gave her. Her hand clasped the key chain that her mother made during her junior year in high school, the red yarn now had a slightly faded orange hue to it, but the fire design was still evident to the eye. The matching crocheted key chain was in the envelope next to the coroner’s paperwork, it still contained Margie’s key.

          As the key turned in the ignition of the rental car Margie flashed back to the last drive her mother and she had taken in the now totaled sedan. The entire day was spent meandering along small side streets looking for garage sale goodies, listening to oldies rock and harassing her mother about their upcoming Thanksgiving plans. Their constant companion was her mother's green overcoat and her treasured cameo broach; the cameo was the only witness to Margie’s failure to stop at the red light and the grating sound of metal that resulted. The other driver escaped unharmed just like Margie, but not Gwen. The tepid air of that day remains a reminder of that last drive they took; what a difference a week in fall can make.

        The car slipped easily into the narrow space in front of the funeral home, it almost felt too easy given all that had happened. Margie pulled the cameo out of the darkened-wood jewelry box, the green chiffon dress they had picked out for her mother to wear would make an excellent backdrop for the piece of the past that now rested in Margie’s hand.

        “Goodbye Mom, I’m sorry.”