Nan’s Fake Pearls
written by: Emma Wells
Since a baby, I reached for her pearl necklace. She could never afford real ones but wore fake pearls with the pride of an Egyptian queen. They were cream, orbital planets that played with light, pearlescent moons worn by Nan, now Big Granny (for my daughter). She would always take them back from curious hands, gently nurturing, over decades.
As she aged, they were reliable, silver coins, a currency to confidence, hanging from her wrinkling neck. I used them for dress-up, pretending to be a rich lady, donning silken gloves and her Sunday best handbag. She would smile, say “Look at you, la de da,” igniting my imagination like a lit match.
In the last years, the pearls dimmed, covered in stains, mainly from fallen food, slipping free of dentures or bared gums. Splattered egg yolk encrusted some, yet I’d still eye them wondrously, noting only gilded shrouds as kingly robes. They were an integral piece, a necklace placenta, even when far apart.
When she died, I wanted them, but I couldn’t bear to visit the empty bungalow, once a bloomed rose, but shrunken, without her, to starved-petal walls. Perhaps they are lost in a rubbish heap, buried under smudgy modern life. For me, even in darkest corners of thought, they will always burn, as a guiding candle or celestial moonbeam, giving me a dot-to-dot pathway.
Today, invisibly buoyed, I gaze upon a milky halo. Reaching up, I take her life buoy ring, anoint myself with a fake pearl crown.
- Nan’s Fake Pearls - July 20, 2026
- Bloodshot - April 20, 2026
- Fall - January 16, 2026
