When someone we love passes, it’s often the small, ordinary details that bubble to the surface of the mind first—a certain turn of phrase, the way they stirred their tea, the rhythm of their footsteps. While their presence lingers in us, it’s the objects they leave behind that offer something tangible to hold onto, tokens of a life that shaped ours, asserting that they were here. Heirlooms are not just objects, they’re invaluable treasures that hold the spirit and vitality of those we’ve loved and lost.
At Bond & Grace, we’re drawn to the stories behind the stories—the invaluable, often oral histories that surface as cherished objects are passed from one hand to the next. As we reflect on legacy—who we come from and what we carry forward—we asked members of our community to share the heirlooms that matter most to them. The results are intimate, tender, and nostalgia-ridden: a ruby ring that witnessed a granddaughter’s coming of age, a rose bush that blooms with love across generations, and a transitory gift that carries the humor and humility of a grandfather’s final days.
So grab your tissues and call your loved ones. And maybe ask about that old ring, that recipe book, that faded photograph. It might just be yours one day.
What She Gave Me Was More Than Gold, by Chelsea Gabbard
When it came to jewelry, my grandmother Maria Matracia was accustomed to getting whatever she wanted: 24-carat gold, polished to a mirror shine, gemstones in every color of the rainbow, watches with diamond bands so dainty and thin you couldn’t help but hold your breath when you helped her with the clasp. Anything and everything. She had so many rings that each of her granddaughters was promised one as a gift for their twenty-first birthday. My poor grandfather could barely keep up.
In the photograph below, past the evening cigarettes and the bright red manicure, you can see the ruby ring that I begged and pleaded for from age six until the day she handed it over to me, glittering in its velvet box, fifteen years later—a week before she died.
Grief is incredibly strange. Twenty-one feels like a lifetime ago, but losing my grandmother feels like it happened just yesterday. I find that the grander details of her life have made their way to the back of my mind, saving space for me to miss the smaller things. Making meatballs together while her Great American Songbook records played in the background, Sarah Vaughan’s mellow timbre echoing down the hall and into the kitchen. Daily calls about nothing in particular on my drive from the local university to my terrible part-time job. Sitting at her kitchen table for hours, talking about love and life and what it meant to be a woman full of feeling, raised by a woman full of feeling, raised by a woman full of feeling. I told my grandmother everything, and the things I didn’t, she knew anyway.
All the while, almost imperceptibly, that ruby ring was a character in our story, perched atop a coffee mug or cradled close to the phone receiver, a willing participant in the trading of our secrets.
My grandmother’s ring is one of my most prized possessions, but it’s nothing in comparison to my memory of her. And what are memories if not the richest heirlooms of all?
My Grandmother’s Rose Bush, by Natalie Breton
My grandmother loved roses. She was raised on a farm and valued simple pleasures. She never had much, but she was full of joy and gratitude. She was rich in family, in the hard work on the farm, and in the animals she cared for. In the little spare time she had, she tended to her roses. They were wild, full of life and color, just like her. When she passed, her rose bushes were carefully divided among her children and grandchildren. Most of us still have a rose bush from my grandmother’s garden. They bloom every year, becoming a seasonal heirloom, rich not in material value, but in love and memory.
