I'd almost forgotten about the jewelry in my pocket, derailed as I was from my original mission by the hot day and the happy dog pulling me toward the promised land of grocery stores filled with air-conditioning and clerks who give him rubbery treats. I'd almost forgotten how heavy it felt earlier, its combined weight with wallet and roll of poopy bags tugging at the waistline of my pants. But here it is, rediscovered only now as I reach into my pocket to retrieve one of those above-mentioned bags.
"We can't go to the store quite yet, buddy," I murmur as I scoop and cinch Pilot's dooty into a neon green sack. "Let's take the long way. I have something I need to do."
We walk slowly. I look for spaces that call out for adornment and ponder the stories behind these pendants worth telling. Everything has a story. Everything is a story, perhaps even a good one, if told well.
I could turn negativity into poetry if I wanted. Pain into beauty. I could release hundreds of impassioned words onto a commiserating audience and we could all share in the pain of our regrettable pasts. I'm quite good at that. But what good would it do them? Or me?
I say words and phrases to myself in my mind, inspired by the memories of each individual piece of jewelry. Snapped in half and sense of duty and rescue and save and sorry. These words, these stories, they described me, once.
They don't anymore.
This necklace, that pendant... one here, one over there...
Tomorrow new eyes will find them. Regard them with awe and appreciation for the beautiful things they have always been.
They don't need their old words anymore, their old stories. Their old pain.
Neither do I.
He can't hurt me anymore, because he doesn't.
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All the stuff (pictures, words, etc.) I put in this post and any of my other posts is mine (unless otherwise stated) and can't be used by anyone else unless I say it's ok and yes, I carried around a bag of dog shit while I rehomed all of the jewelry my ex gave me.