This necklace, I thought it’d always belong to you. Memories lacking time stamps show that heart hanging from your neck. Hard and cool, diamond facets border gold. My little fingers trace the grooves, guided by the prongs, rising and falling, spokes of gold. Metal touches my tongue, and I wonder at the taste, metallic, elements belonging to the earth but unearthed. You shake your head and make a face. I spit out the necklace. Meant to be worn. Meant to be seen.
This necklace, I thought it’d always belong to you. You wore it around your neck always, even to bed. You never took it off. Or your wedding ring. Stubborn. Until that day, and, even then, someone else, someone you didn’t know, took it off. Your wedding ring, simple band, belongs on your finger still. But this necklace, they put it in my hand. Its chain unwound. Heart fell and landed in my palm. Mine, but not mine.
I slipped this navy dress over my head. You always preferred me in navy anyway, so I know you don’t mind. You always bought me navy, if not pink. Everyone else will wear black anyway. My hands shake. This clasp is impossible. No wonder you never took it off.
Mom walks into the bedroom. I cry. I know I ought to wear this necklace, but I dread it because it doesn’t belong there. Not on my skin. Yours. But yours is cold. To be concealed. For now. Easter morning, the last time I said goodbye, I walked away knowing I’d wait. No words. Not my voice. Maranatha.
Dad clasps this necklace around my neck, the necklace his dad, my papa, gave to you. I visualize, easier to imagine you wearing it than to feel it on my skin. Not mine, but yours. Yet, still mine. You, forever the object of the love that gifted this necklace, gifted it to me, grandchild born of love and love over. Meant to be worn. Meant to be seen. Mine, but not mine.
