By Amy Martin 
I walked past the antique chair into the sunken living room of the beautifully decorated home. I passed the extensive Lladró collection and into the kitchen, where people were pouring drinks and fixing plates of pot roast and mac and cheese. Where was it? I asked myself for the hundredth time. I made my way back to the powder room where I’d last seen it nestled between a bunny lamp and handmade lavender soaps. It just has to be here.
I wasn’t in the best frame of mind, having only had wine as my dinner, but I needed to find it. I started to think maybe someone took it as a small memento, not understanding its importance. That was crazy though, right? Who takes things from a wake? I continued to wander around my mom’s house, wine in hand, saying things like “Thank you for being here” and “Yes, she would have loved the service” to those offering condolences.
At one point, I took a break from my scavenger hunt to sit on the living room step, only to be cornered by a well-meaning relative who wanted to chat. Deciding I really needed to eat at least something, I excused myself into the dining room to find my treasure staring at me from a curio cabinet on the wall. The tiny gold frame housing a Saran-wrapped, withered, four-leaf clover peeked out from the shelf like it’d been playing hide-and-seek.
My mom wasn’t necessarily an outdoorsy person, but she did love to garden and told stories of her Girl Scout camp days as a child. That clover, she’d said, was the first one she’d ever found, and she’d gone to great lengths to dry and frame it. Springtime had us sitting cross-legged in clover patches searching for them. I never was very good at finding them, although I did manage to keep one that’s still in a baggie somewhere.
It’s funny the things you want when someone like your momma passes. Her house was/is (my dad still lives there) full of expensive antiques and collectibles. The walls are covered in framed artwork, and every corner brags something lovely from their travels. She had immaculate taste, and I had all sorts of amazing things to choose from; yet all I wanted was that framed four-leaf clover.
I’m sure to many that may seem silly, but to me it represented my childhood. It meant lazy afternoon picnics and picking wildflowers. Finding honeysuckle to smell and nibble on. Making wishes on plumes of dandelions and squealing as bees flew by. It meant trips to the nursery to find new flowers to plant and drawing hopscotch squares in chalk on the driveway. It was lemonade and open windows and the smell of fresh grass.
That little frame sits in front of a picture of my momma on my living room shelf. It’s still one of my most prized possessions, and I frequently hold it in my hand to feel close to her when I need to. I’ve amassed some pretty neat things myself over the years, but I wonder what my son will choose to look for when my time comes. I pray I’ve given him enough memories that it won’t be an antique painting hanging on a back wall.
by Meghan Riordan Jarvis 
by Lindsay Sledge 
