I cannot hear rain drops on my rooftop without remembering my mother’s pearl necklace.
Given to her by my father on their wedding day and worn only on very special occasions, it was kept nestled in a blue velvet pouch in the bottom drawer of her vanity under her delicately scented handkerchiefs.I knew better than to ever go into that drawer, but one wet, winter day when I was six years old and bored with being inside, I decided to play dress-up and there was nothing dressier to me than that string of precious pearls.
The tiny, silver clasp would not give way to my clumsy, young fingers and so, in frustration, I tried pulling the necklace on over my head. I can still recall the sound of those pearls as they hit, bounced, and scattered across the wooden floor and the look on my mother’s face when she entered the room, as rain thundered down on the roof above.
This post is in response to the prompt “rain” at Five Sentence Fiction.
