I was fifteen when she was diagnosed. My parents called me into the living room. A spot on an X-ray. An appointment with an oncologist. An off-island trip for surgery. So many unknowns and things I couldn’t grasp at 15. 
My life continued: cheerleading, football games, prom, work, beach, friends. My mom’s life continued also: chemo, pills, radiation, hospitals, home care, hospice. 
The first time she lost her hair, it grew back silver; the second time it grew back dark and curly. While she was bald, I’d come in the front door, rub her head, and call her “little Buddha.” 
She was a daughter of travelers, professors, worldly people. I assume she got the pendant while living overseas, though the story beyond mine is lost to time. 
She was dying. Stage four: from lungs to bones to brain. She began gifting things. I was her only daughter, but we went through the motions anyway, and as she lifted and named things from her jewelry box, she called the jade pendant “little Buddha” before making the connection. We shared a smile and tears. It was immediately mine; no need to wait for death to carry her with me. 
Now I have photos of her holding me as an infant with the Buddha around her neck next to photos of me with my own infants with the Buddha around mine. 
I’m told it’s bad luck to buy jade for yourself, that it should always be gifted. Maybe that’s where her bad luck stemmed from, and I hope I never suffer the same fate. I wear the Buddha she gifted me regularly, carrying her with me. 

– KG

Relationship:  unknown unknown