I bought this silver bracelet at Clearing House, my mom’s favorite consignment store in Towson, Maryland.
Who would give up such a pretty, simple bracelet?
Surely Irma didn’t sell it herself. Maybe, but I doubt it.
So what family member decided not to keep it? Couldn’t a granddaughter or cousin or niece wear it in Irma’s memory?
Every time I put on the bracelet, I wonder about Irma.
Did she ride horses? Play the flute? Bake a great pie? Shoot skeet? And dare I add, what was her menopause like if she lived that long?
Poor lost abandoned Irma.
I have an idea! One of my daughters can have a daughter and name her Irma B!
The bracelet will be hers! I’ll tie a pink ribbon around it and bring it to the hospital the second I get the news.
Not sure Irma is at the top of Kath or Laura’s list of names, though.
Maybe I’ll have a chance encounter with someone named Irma B. I’ll gallantly remove the bracelet. “Here, please take it,” I’ll say, pressing it onto the new Irma’s wrist.
Perhaps a reader, one of you, will come forward. “My name is Irma B.”
If so, Irma, the bracelet will be in the mail to you tout de suite.
But until that day, I honor Irma, mysterious Irma B, by sporting her name on my wrist.