The Opihi Shell Necklace Hidden in My Mother’s Closet by Melissa Llanes Brownlee

There are boxes of Spam, corned beef, Vienna sausages, ramen stacked on the left in my mother’s closet, bought with coupons and rainchecks. There are shoes in all the shades of taupe to match the nude nylons that don’t match her skin, lined along the back wall. There are harlequin and silhouette romances on the shelf, rows upon rows, two or three deep, their hues so different from hers. There are dresses and slacks and blouses, smart and chic and ruffled, hanging from the good hangers.

I know there are hidden spaces in my mother’s closet I can’t reach. I know there are things I am not allowed to see. I know there are secrets. They whisper to me at night and I dream of grandma’s opihi shell necklace, the one her mother gave her when opihi were the size of your hand, the one she was supposed to be buried with, a glowing white oval on my dark skin, the ocean calling me home.

Artist’s Statement

Living close to the edge of poverty, especially in Hawai’i, I grew up with coupon clipping and stockpiling food in bulk. This piece came from a moment in my childhood when I was putting away the groceries in the closet and discovered a hidden Tupperware filled with jewelry. I never asked my mother about it because I knew I shouldn’t have found it, but I always imagined that these pieces shouldn’t have been there and to this day wonder about them.

Melissa Llanes Brownlee (she/her), a native Hawaiian writer living in Japan, has work published and forthcoming in The Rumpus, Fractured Lit, Flash Frog, Gigantic Sequins, Cream City Review, Cincinnati Review miCRo, Indiana Review, Craft, swamp pink, and Moon City Review, and honored in Best Small Fictions, Best Microfictions, and Wigleaf Top 50. Read Hard Skin from Juventud Press and Kahi and Lua from Alien Buddha. She tweets @lumchanmfa and talks story melissallanesbrownlee.com.