In my childhood home, there’s a small bookshelf in a hallway with a stack of photo albums of matching botanical prints, lending the space a little pop of colour while perpetually collecting dust on the bottom row. One of these albums holds memories of my cousin’s wedding. I don’t remember much about that day but I do remember one particular photo hidden away in that album.

My two other cousins and I, all in our awkward tweens posing in the burning heat, waiting for the bride to arrive for her most precious day. Every time I think of that photo, I travel back in time to that day.

It was the morning. My mother, sister and I traveled the day before to stay the night at my aunt’s house. It was all chaos as we all prepared to get ready to witness our loved ones tie the knot. Not one hair should be astray or any wrinkle in shirt or dress be allowed make an appearance to the event.

My cousins were still busy doing each others’ hair while I had already finished putting on my new purple and black dress and made my way to the kitchen to eat breakfast.

After eating, I walked past the living-room-turned-ironing-station, and the smell of my cornflakes’ breath mixed with the smell of freshly pressed fabrics.

“Could you bring my dress for me. It’s in my room,” my aunt asked when she spotted.

I obliged and entered her room to locate it. My mother stayed the night with my aunt in her room and it was filled with clothes on the bed, ready to be ironed, both their jewelry collections scattered all over the dressing table, and my mother’s open suitcase sitting at the end of the bed, a cluster of garments hanging over its edge.

I walked past the dressing table towards the bed and gently picked up her dress like a fragile new-born and transported and delivered it to my aunt.

I, then, made my way back to my cousins room and watched them finish styling each other’s hair, making the final touches.

I continued to observe them as they began to put on their freshly-pressed outfits when a small commotion broke out in the hallway.

“Where is my bracelet?” my mother shrieked.

Everyone was suddenly on full alert and made their way to the hall way.

“I can’t find my bracelet!” she half-yelled, her voice slightly shaking, panic building over her missing jewelry.

I knew the bracelet. A gold chain bracelet from which an array of colourful charms hung. Her every outfit, whether it be for a special event like today or just work, was adorned with her glinting bracelet; giving her ensemble a musical clink-and-jingle with her every stride. I had no idea if it had sentimental value to her or not. I never thought to ask. But I assumed it must since its disappearance had brought all the wedding prep pandemonium to a sudden halt.

“I think I saw it on the dressing table earlier,” I said when I emerged into the hallway. Her bracelet was a part of her image so I wanted to help my mother find it. She wouldn’t be the same without her noisy wrists.