Silver Stones
written by: Tina Hudak
The hand-beaded necklace, knotted with stones small and silver, kept falling to the ground every time she brushed against the accordion rack. This antique made of burnished wood held sundry items, everyday objects so she could easily grab them at a whim. Silk scarves from India, chenille bathrobe from the 1960s, even her husband’s childhood cowboy bola – all worn but still serviceable, and jewelry made just for her by friends and former students.
Today, of all days, was significant. A seemingly insignificant event of the choker necklace falling time after time as she hung up her bathrobe, or grabbed the sapphire blue scarf. This necklace she never wore. She was not a necklace type of person. It hung here regardless as a memento mori. Made by her good friend of forty years it had been sent to her through the mail with a handwritten note by the caregiver when this friend died. Frankly, she never knew what to do with it, so it hung there for a year. But today, as it fell several times within the morning hours, she picked it up one last time and fastened it around her neck. Alone in her room and looking at her reflection in the mirror, she comments aloud with a laugh, “O.K. Mary. I am wearing the damn thing. And, I miss you, too!”
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