I remember my mother’s Aunt Lucy as barely taller then me. That is, until I turned ten and sprouted into a leggy alien who had the exceedingly bad manners to tower over her. Thereafter she ignored me, transferring her affections onto my younger sister.

Lucy was my grandfather’s youngest sister. Although his other five sisters were of average height and much prettier, Lucy was the charmer: perky, effervescent and the life of any party. And so she, according to my mother, reeled in the “best catch,” a wealthy businessman named Emerson. They couldn’t have children of their own and so they adopted Gloria and showered her with the best of everything . . . toys, dolls and books. Only, they never taught her to share. A fact which irritated my mother well into her eighties.

Emerson and Lucy divorced when Gloria was a child. A divorce is always a tragedy but motherhood had apparently turned the effervescent fun-looking Lucy into puritanical prude who couldn’t bear to let go of her daughter and frowned upon any kind of liquor being in the house. Gloria became a brilliant chemist who worked in academics and in industry but always with her mother by her side. Any interested man was quickly chased away. After her mother died, Gloria didn’t last long.

Before she passed Gloria gave me her mother’s prize possession. A mandolin with a Mother-of-Pearl inlaid butterfly. It’s in beautiful shape. Not even a scratch.

She asked me to give it to my son who had just begun to show an interest in music, that son who is now living in the mountains in Shikoku Japan. He doesn’t want it.

I thought of selling it. Laid it on the bed and took some pictures. Joel (hubby) came in and said “Who does that belong to?” I thought a minute and said. “Me! It belongs to me!”

I doubt I’ll learn to play it. I have no musical talent. But somehow I don’t think I can give it away to strangers or sell it. I’ll leave that to my children.