Luck Be a Disomy Embryo

I was organizing my closet just now when I rediscovered a beaded vintage clutch that was my grandmother's. I opened it, sort of hoping to find some sign of her former ownership of it, like a matchbook or a Nina Ricci lipstick. A penny, dated 1971, slid down the satin interior. She never carried or gave away a bag without one.

We were close when I was young. I used to go sleep over at her house, and she'd teach me some Italian with scratchy old records. We'd watch TV and she'd let me go through her closet, a treasure chest of fur and silk and matching hats and shoes in Jordan-almond colors. I'd take all her costume jewelry out of the boxes and spray her trays of Shalimar and Dior, a new layer on the fragrant film already covering every fabric in the room.

And then I was an uncivil teenager -- thought I knew everything. Went to college. And then she died.

Our relationship wasn't perfect, but she loved me in that huge, unapologetic, forgiving way that grandparents do. And I like to think that she's looking out for me in some way. Like to think that that penny was a little sign of encouragement.

Forget my earlier post. I'm doing all I can do. A little luck is exactly what I need.