The Locket

The Locket

How many days have I waited? And now, I realize not one of them was in vain. Not a single tear wasted. In just a few hours, she’ll be in my arms again — and I have no doubt this will be the best chapter of our lives. Her room is almost ready, just as she remembers it: open and airy, quietly inviting, with the soft hum of traffic and voices rising from the street below. I smooth the sheets one more time, then pause at her desk, her sacred little space, to adjust the flowers. A tender arrangement of yellow and cream roses, soft pink peonies, delicate ranunculus, and tiny waxflowers. I’ve framed one of her favorite quotes and selected a few pens from the stationery store. And now, the afternoon light filters through the window, casting a dreamlike glow over the room.

Her favorite cup hasn’t been touched since she left on that train for the coast, over three years ago. I’ve also saved the green dessert spoon, the one with the polka dots on the handle, that she loves. It seems everything holds its own quiet significance for her, each item quietly bound by a delicate thread of sentiment.

It’s almost as if she made a secret pact with herself, sitting quietly on the balcony those mornings years ago, coffee in hand. It must have been the clouds, pink and swirling, that seemed to be freshly painted just for her — as though the Italian masters were showering her with kisses from heaven. And now, she’s returning to fulfill those sweet promises she made.

Signora Carmela gave me the bouquet this morning, and doubled the strawberries, when I told her she was coming. She always gives just a little more, somehow knowing when it matters most. You’d think she’d go out of business, giving so freely, but hers remains one of the most beloved shops in Catania.

The flight is scheduled to arrive in a few hours, but I won’t be meeting her at the airport this time. She insisted on arranging things with her driver —as she calls him— the one she met during her last visit. She still carries the business card he handed her from the window of the cab when she wandered the streets of Catania alone, on that last day. I called him, and he agreed to pick her up. What she doesn’t know is that I’ve already taken care of everything, and he’s sincerely happy that she remembered him. I don’t know what their arrangement was, but I’ve come to understand, it’s just her way. She ties her love to every meaningful encounter, always hoping to leave others a little happier than before.

I wonder if she’s still the same, or if these last few years have changed her too. I wonder why I let her go, and what it was that made her run away. But I’m trying not to think about that. I know it’s time to look forward. It’s time to hold her in my arms again.

I decided to look through my mother’s old jewelry box before she arrives. There’s a necklace I want to give her — a surprise. I think she’ll like it. She says she loves my mom, even though they never had the chance to meet. I know my mom would have loved her too. When I inherited the box, I found the locket hidden beneath the velvet lining. Inside, there’s a picture of my mom. She looks to be about nineteen. On the other side is a photo of a young man, about the same age. She must have known him before she met my dad. I wonder why it was hidden, and if my dad even knew it was there. My parents were deeply in love, so I’m sure it wasn’t anything too secret. I can’t wait to hold her in my arms again.

Yes, I think this locket will be the perfect gift.

Impatiently, I wait at the curb, and the taxi finally comes into view, speeding down the dusty street. Relieved, I open the car door and reach in for her hand as the driver quickly unloads the suitcase and thanks us for remembering him. We smile and wave goodbye. Neither of us says a word. As he pulls away, I gently lead her into the foyer and close the door behind us. Tears well up in both our eyes, and she falls into my arms, resting her head quietly on my chest. This is better than I could have imagined; she’s much more responsive than I remember. Looking up at me with tired eyes, she starts to cry, but I kiss her lips, and she laughs. Says she’s never been this happy in her life.

I take her hand and lead her up the stairs, where dinner is waiting for us. And suddenly, she becomes very talkative and happy, seeing the familiar kitchen and remembering the last time we were here together, how shy we both were during those four days she spent in “quarantine.” She immediately picks up the teal cup and the spoon and says she can’t wait to have some coffee on the balcony. She dreams about it every day.

Just as I thought, the necklace looks lovely on her, and she adores the design. She seems genuinely thankful to be wearing a vintage Italian heirloom, something clearly sacred to my mom. She presses it to her chest and smiles, then gently rolls the locket around in her fingers. I hand her the jewelry box, telling her she can look through it later, when she has time. I’ve never seen her this happy. The way she suddenly seemed taller, more confident, as she carefully placed the box on her desk — it’s more than I could have hoped for.

When I arrive home from work the next day, a delicious smell greets me from the kitchen, though I can’t quite place which American dish she’s preparing. She hears the door open and rushes to embrace me, saying she’s waited all day just to talk to me again. After a few words, she reaches into her pocket, pulls something out, and takes my hand. Then, carefully, she places the key in my palm, the one she found in the jewelry box. It’s bulky, ornate, and unmistakably antique. I laugh softly, unsure what she’s about to say. She looks me straight in the eyes and asks, “Where did you get this?”

To be honest, I don’t really know. It’s always been in the jewelry box. I remember seeing it a few times when I was a child, usually when my mom put her wedding rings away before bed. It’s beautiful, so I just thought it was something pretty she liked to keep. I hadn’t seen it again until she passed away and I inherited the box.

“Have you ever noticed the initials engraved on it?”

“What initials?”

“Right here. G.V.”

“G.V.? No… I wonder what that could be. Or who that could be. There’s no one in our family with those initials.”

“I know someone with those initials.”

“Really! Who?”

“Verga. Giovanni Verga.”

The look she gave me was so sincere and innocent that I couldn’t help myself. I pulled her into a hug and burst out laughing. Yes, it’s true that Verga, the 19th-century realist, had lived just around the corner. But the idea that we’d somehow stolen his key was just too much. Still, she insisted there might be something to it.

“And look, on the other side, Per Sempre.”

“That’s a lot of inscription for a key. I guess I’ve never really looked at it that close.”

“In one of Verga’s stories, Beyond the Sea, there was a young couple who were torn apart by their circumstances, but they had vowed to remember each other forever, and they met throughout the years whenever they got the chance.”

“Yes, I remember you telling me I should read that story. That’s intriguing. But how in the world would my mom have a key that belonged to Verga? He’s been gone for a very long time.”

“You’re right, it’s probably nothing. The key is really pretty, anyway. I love those earrings, too. I’m planning on wearing them when we go out. They’ll go perfect with the dress I bought.”

“What’s for dinner? It smells really good.”

We chatted for a long time, but the jet lag was still tugging at her, so she went to her room and slept hard through the night. I told her not to worry about the dishes; I’d take care of them. It still feels unreal that she’s here, cooking in my kitchen, showering in my bathroom, climbing the same stairs, and gazing out the same window at the ever-present Etna.

The following morning, I quietly entered her room and gently woke her before heading off to work. I told her we’d visit the Verga Museum once I got home. She had come to appreciate his stories while translating mine from Italian to English, and now, it seemed, she felt a personal connection to him. I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered, or a little jealous. She said it felt like it was meant to be, like Italy had been calling her all along. Calling her to me, to Catania, to its history, its people, its stories. She said she had never been so in love with life as she was now.

She looks beautiful in her new dress, the locket resting gently around her neck. Pushing her hair back with her sunglasses, she smiles with a newfound confidence. I notice she’s wearing the earrings too. We take our time walking to the museum, laughing and chatting the whole way. She insists on peering into every doorway and down every alley. I don’t mind at all. I’ve never seen someone so in love with their surroundings. And honestly, I’ve never been so in love. Her innocence comforts me deeply. She says America feels linear, and cookie-cutter. But Italy? Italy is complex, and it’s the complexity that nourishes her heart and mind and makes her feel alive.

We finally arrive at the sidewalk leading to the museum where, standing in the arched doorway, is the curator. An older woman with a pleasant, knowing smile, as if she’d been there waiting for us. She apologizes and explains that she was just about to lock up; they were closing early for the quarterly staff meeting. Just as we begin to turn away, though, she suddenly gestures for us to come inside.

“You know what? I don’t have to lock up just now. You can take a quick tour if you like. Just check back with me in about fifteen minutes.”

We walk through the home where Verga’s daily life is captured in his writings, old furniture, tile floors, and faded photographs — all tenderly preserved. It’s hard to imagine a family once moved through this space, and now it feels as though time itself is holding its breath while we peek in, trying to unravel its secrets. We don’t say much, but I can see her enthusiasm every time she turns back to look at me and smile. It wouldn’t matter where we were, as long as she was looking at me like that.

She walks further ahead and suddenly stops cold, and I can see she’s breathing harder. Something has startled her, and I can’t imagine what she stumbled upon. I walked up behind her and put my arm around her waist, and instinctively, she wraps her arm around mine. She was staring down at a small photograph on the end table.

“Do you see that?”

“What?”

“The man in the photograph.”

Lost in thought, she turns the locket over in her fingers, gently tracing its heart shape. Then she opens it carefully and holds it up for me to see inside. I lean in to study the small image of the young man, then glance back at the framed photo on the table. There’s no doubt — the two men are related, though the one in the frame is much older.

Just then, the curator steps into the room, startling us both.

“Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed your little tour. I’m so sorry I have to close up now, everyone has arrived, and the meeting is starting in about five minutes. Please hurry back and spend some more time with us! Next time, just ask for me, Livia, and there’s no charge.”

“Thank you so much. I’m sure we’ll be back very soon. We’re right down the street.”

“Perfect, see you soon. You remember how to get back to the exit?”

“Yes. Thank you, again.”

She couldn’t get to the exit quick enough, tugging me by the hand and leading the way outside.

Still whispering, she asks again:

“Did you see that? The young man in the locket—in that photograph on the table?”

“They almost looked like they could be father and son.”

“No! It’s the same man. It’s just that he’s much older in the photograph.”

“There’s no way. Why would my mom have his picture? In her locket?”

“They must have been close.”

“But how is that possible? She never mentioned it.”

“Maybe she couldn’t.”

Now, it’s my heart that’s racing. What could this mean? My mother — so careful, so faithful, so open. Was this just a coincidence? Or something she’s been quietly carrying her whole life? My whole life?

We practically ran home, skipping the thought of dining out as we had planned. She was so eager to get a closer look at the jewelry box, to see if there were any more clues tucked away inside or perhaps hidden deeper under the velvet lining. She sat on the bed, holding the box in her lap, the lid closed. I knelt beside her on the floor, staring up at her face, trying to decode what she was feeling, what she was thinking.

“You know, my dad gave her that box on their first anniversary. He crafted it with his own hands. She chose that inlay because it reminded her of a piece she’d seen in his shop, one she’d grown very fond of. It was a commission. This is actually a miniature of the angel from that piece. She loved the lilac velvet lining and bought it herself, and you can still smell the lavender she sometimes kept inside. I think the scent helped her fall asleep when she put her rings in the box before bed each night.”

“That’s such a beautiful memory. Thank you for entrusting it to me. I’ll always cherish it.”

“Should we look for some more clues?”

She slowly opened the box, gently brushing the inside of the lid with her fingers, the afternoon light dancing across the velvet that was less worn. There was no opening in the lining, and she didn’t feel anything under it. She carefully removed each piece of jewelry, inspecting everything closely before handing them to me. Nothing.

Then, she located the small opening in the lining in the bottom of the box, where I had found the locket. She lifted it lightly and looked inside. There didn’t seem to be anything there. Again, she brushed her fingers across the velvet. She felt a faint ripple under the fabric towards the back corner, but said it was probably nothing. Still, she had to be sure. She reached in with her finger as far as she could and began pulling something towards the opening.

“It feels like paper. A small piece of paper, folded.”

She carefully eased the object out of the box. It was paper. An old, worn note of some kind. She pulled it out and I could see, by her expression, that her heart was racing again. It was just a small square of folded paper, which to me, seemed very insignificant. She looked at me, as if asking for permission, and I nodded for her to go ahead. She unfolded it once, and then a second time.

Inside, it simply read: Per Sempre.

That’s all it said.

But why was she crying now? What just happened?

“I don’t understand. Why are you crying? Is everything okay, love?”

She paused, holding the note close to her chest.

“It’s just… everything feels like it’s finally coming together—the past, the present, us. It’s more than I ever dared to hope for…”

“...You didn’t read the story, did you? Beyond the Sea?”

“No, I’m sorry, not yet.”

“In the story, as the young lovers were parting, the girl gave him a small piece of paper with these exact words: Per Sempre. Just like the one I’m holding now.”

Brushing the tears from her cheeks, she smiled, then suddenly sprang up and threw her arms around my neck, showering me with kisses.

“We’ve found something important. Something real. I just know it. This is part of our story.”

“You really think so?”

“Sì.”

After dinner, we settled into bed with some lavender tea, and I read Verga’s Beyond the Sea to her. She lay beside me, beautiful and serene, dressed in her loose cotton pajamas, her hair tied up in a messy bun. She listened to my words like they were raindrops falling in the desert, being so careful to absorb each one. It felt like the perfect moment to hold her again.

“Do you want to sleep here tonight?”

“Sì.”

We decided that we would return to the museum on Saturday for a closer look at the man in the photograph. Until then, we spent each morning on the balcony, and each night together, in the kitchen — cooking, cleaning, and weaving together the details of our new life. Each unfolding day felt like a dream to us both.

“The museum opens at nine. How does that sound?”

“I’m ready when you are.”

“Maybe you should bring that key, too.”

“It’s already in the backpack.”