Diane, Helen and I were rooting around in Helen’s room looking for cufflinks for Matt’s prom shirt. When Brian and Joan were still teenagers and still talking to each other, they worked together making kiln-fired copper enamel ceramic jewelry. Earrings and cufflinks and maybe a tie clasp or two. I thought how cool would it be to see Matt wearing their art? No, I didn’t yet know if Matt would share my enthusiasm, I first wanted to find a matching pair.

While my mother and Diane focused on the obvious places like the jewelry box on her dresser, I pulled open the top drawer. Deep in the back, behind the bobbie pins, buttons, the green golf ball, the squeezed dry tube of Ben Gay, and the “I Like Ike” button, I spied a strange looking salmon and gold glass jar with a gold octagonal cap. It fit nicely in the palm of my hand and I twisted the top off. Sprinkled sparsely on the bottom, like pollen on a flower petal, was saffron colored dust. I stuck my nose in and inhaled.

“Mother, how come I don’t smell anything?” I asked as I rubbed my now itchy nose filled with saffron shavings.

“Why would you?” she answered. “Ruth Hetzel brought that jar back from India. Those are Sy Baba’s ashes.”