I used to be one of those girls with bracelets up to her elbows.
It was a traveling thing. A way to keep some memories tangibly present--this one was from visiting Valerie in Ecuador; this one was from the fair in Lucca; this one was from Souk Jara; this one I found in the back of a drawer at home and it reminded me of something distant. At one point, there were nearly a dozen, living together on my wrists.
Lately, they've all started to fall off. In tune with the leaves on the trees, my arms are getting ready for their own winter of being shoved into coat sleeves with hands in pockets that hold secrets of a life colder than those bracelets remember.
The string with bells on it put up a good fight, but the last bead broke through the worn out thread and rolled away a few weeks ago. The bracelet from a dollar store in Tel Aviv fell apart this summer, spilling beads all over the floor during a doctor's appointment, startling the nurse.
"I'll help you find all the beads," she said. But it was time to move on.
I miss the weight and the noise. The comforting presence. The residual dampness left after washing the dishes. The physically present reminders of distant moments.
But somehow, this is a chance to tie new colors together. I've always worn other places under my sleeves, but never Alaska. I don't know where next year will bring me, but it would be nice to say, "this one is from home."
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| October 2011. |
Lately, they've all started to fall off. In tune with the leaves on the trees, my arms are getting ready for their own winter of being shoved into coat sleeves with hands in pockets that hold secrets of a life colder than those bracelets remember.
The string with bells on it put up a good fight, but the last bead broke through the worn out thread and rolled away a few weeks ago. The bracelet from a dollar store in Tel Aviv fell apart this summer, spilling beads all over the floor during a doctor's appointment, startling the nurse.
"I'll help you find all the beads," she said. But it was time to move on.
I miss the weight and the noise. The comforting presence. The residual dampness left after washing the dishes. The physically present reminders of distant moments.
But somehow, this is a chance to tie new colors together. I've always worn other places under my sleeves, but never Alaska. I don't know where next year will bring me, but it would be nice to say, "this one is from home."
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