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The Necklace I never wear the twisted silver chain That once adorned my grandmother’s neck. I’m not sure why; Perhaps because the necklace And the painted Newfoundland pendant Remind me too much Of my father’s mother, Who I never really knew, And who I never bothered to care about getting to know, Until it was too late. Shining, sparkling, glowing, The long thin silver links lie motionless in my jewelry box, As motionless as my grandmother did the last time I saw her. That silver chain is all I have left of her, My only link to her life. 
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