Dear R:
I have this thing, this cold piece of metal that once belonged to you. At one point in time it served as a lighter, but try as I might, (and being your granddaughter, I mightily tried), I was unable to set it to working order.
So, it sits.
And I wonder… where did it come from? Was it a gift? I remember you lighting your cigarettes with it when I was growing up. Tareytons. Remember? You’d send me with a note to the Twin City Pharmacy “Please give Christine a pack of Tareytons and put it on my account.” Back when stores had accounts. And it was ok for clerks to hand across a pack of cigarettes to a 10 year old.
My god, woman, I miss the hell out of you. I was just telling Dwight yesterday how much I regret the fact that you two never met. You would have loved each other.
RCE.
Rosalind Christine Eisenman.
I am the C. Well, you were the C first, then you gave the C to Aunt Ellen and then my mother gave the C to me. I also got the R. Kinda sorta. Just the R, not your whole first name.
Renee’. What’s that? Who’s that? I’d have rather had Rosalind, just so you know. Aunt Rosalind got that. Which is cool. If you were alive now, I’d have to ask, though, what were you thinking with mom? Edith? No offense, just curious.
I’m glad I have this. This non-functional lighter. Woah, hey, what a claim to fame, eh? But I am. I like knowing that at one time you held this, and made it warm by the heat of your hand. Perhaps you handed it to grandpa and he lit your cigarette for you. Did he buy it for you? It seems like an expensive and frivolous gift for a depressions-era couple. Perhaps you bought it yourself with money you won at the track, who knows? But I like knowing it was yours. And when I touch it, I think about you and what you might have been thinking one of the times you used it.
I remember stories you told me about being a single lady in the flapper days. I must confess, I picture you in black silk and fringe with a long string of pearls. Perhaps a flirty feather in your hair, with a cigarette holder placed delicately at your lips, awaiting the handsome Gastby-esque suitor to light the cigarette you will delicately feign to inhale.
And perhaps you have a glass of champagne nearby.
Or two.