Looking at her little jewellery box that sits on the bathroom counter I decide to open it, as I have many times before. Maybe something different will pop out at me this time. Something I’ve never seen, some deeper glimpse into the essence of who she was when she breathed air with me.
The things are the same things, and I contemplate wearing a pair of the earrings that I’m now taking out, looking at and studying. Then I think “What if she never liked this pair? What if it’s a pair of earrings she hated, or that someone she didn’t like gave to her?” I put the pairs in a little heap, the few pairs that there are among the many lone stragglers consisting of bellybutton rings, a few of my own rings and even a few of my earrings.
I realize that I don’t know which earrings were her favourite, which ones she wore most often and I am overcome with that sense of loss and pain. I want to ask her which earrings she liked. I want to remember them on her ear lobes. I want to buy her Christmas presents – little pretty crystals, pendants, maybe even new earrings – and now I want to hear her voice, and see her face but there are only memories, and pictures that capture those memories.