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.