The weight I carried on my left hand when I was married to my late husband gave me a feeling of comfort.  I didn’t need to look at my rings to feel them.  The weight was comfortable.

When I took them off for good after he passed, I mourned the loss of the weight.  My hand felt weird. The balance was off.  I didn’t have rings on any fingers, and the comfortable asymmetry was omitted from my day-to-day life.

When Z passed, I went to the jewelry store and purchased three necklaces.  One for my mom, one for my other (remaining? living? present?) daughter and one for me.  They were all different – shape, engraving, metal.

My necklace is heavy.  It’s a measurable weight on my neck and the silver charm sits on my chest like a ballast to my emotion.  It gives me a sort-of equilibrium.

I don’t shower or sleep in it.  I take it off at night.  I undo the clasp and the emptiness I feel on my throat gives tangible account to the missing in my life.

My neck feels empty – she is missing.

At night, my fingers crawl across my bare neck, my throat, my chest. I search for what’s gone.


One thought on “Weight

  1. dawn September 7, 2017 / 920179America/Detroit



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