The persistence of a mother

This morning I received in the mail a package from my mother. Packages from my mother arrive with some regularly, more so now that she has embarked on clearing out her house. (More on that hilarious, futile and sometimes tragic endeavor, at another time. When I write another novel.)
This package came with a note: Dear Christine, Years ago, when Philip and I were in Greece I bought the enclosed, which I no longer wear – Hope you will like it and use it.
The enclosed, very securely scotch-taped to a piece of cardboard inside the box, is large dangly necklace with cabochons set in silver or a silver-like metal and all chained together to make a kind of V.
Here is the story:
She bought the necklace in Syria.Not Greece. I know, because I was there with her and we each bought one because they were amusing and very cheap.
The last time I was at my mother’s house, she showed me this necklace and asked me if I would like it. I said, No, thanks. I have one just like it and I never wear it. Please give it to someone else.
Hence: it arrives in the mail.

Memorial Day circa then, now

Ah, the pure delight of small naked children running on green grass under the sprinkler. Their squealing. Their delights and ours. While carpenter bees hover under the eaves of shed and contemplate their next desecration. While chickens peck at watermelon rinds. While honeybees gather nectar from clover and apple blossoms and pink chestnuts. While CSB cleans propolis and wax build up from the honeybee supers. While young mothers discuss the hilarities of potty training and the writing of Junot Diaz. While the grandmother pretends to read the Sunday Times Styles section. While the dog slumbers in the shade of the hammock, of the tree, of any shade he can find. While time holds its breath, stays still and then hurtles along.
Please note "photoshopped for propriety" photo.