Out On the Town

part twelve

My necklace broke. Inevitably, shattered.

The bluestone ring, from Stonehenge. I wore it every day. I slept with it hanging from my neck as though it tethered me to this time, this place, but really it was a reference to what feels like way-back-when. Can it be called nostalgia when the memories aren't there, merely the feelings? I feel that I've lived another life these last few months since I've returned "home" and I'd twist the bluestone around my finger and remember my life back there. Back in England.

A short life, certainly, but an entirely separate one from what I'm living now.

I had nightmares about my necklace shattering. During the day I would anxiously twist it around my finger and at night I would anxiously dream of crumbling it in my hands, the shards slipping to the floor.

When it actually broke it didn't happen in slow motion, and it didn't make me sick to my stomach like the nightmares did. I unclasped the light silver chain with my mind in faraway places and suddenly it was on the floor in too many pieces to be considered a singular thing anymore and I stood above the shards, staring, one hand covering my mouth as I fought the urge to cry out, for help or pity, I wasn't sure.

When I finally dropped to the hard tile floor of my mother's bathroom my mind had gone from numb to chasing a vague notion of glue and tape even though I knew it wouldn't work. I scraped together every piece large enough to hold and tried to reconstruct the ring. And I was right, it didn't work; I've never been good with puzzles, let alone broken ones.

Eventually I tucked the chain and the three largest pieces into my pocket and quietly thought about how empty my chest and my neck felt and that feeling hasn't gone away since. I don't know if it will, but the pieces remain on my nightstand and there they will stay. It hurts when I wake up and it hurts when I sleep and I can't help but look at them. The necklace was worth far more to me than the twenty pounds I spent on it. I tried to find it in the online Stonehenge gift shop and even though they still carry the sheep hat I bought, the bluestone necklace is nowhere to be found.

Besides, I couldn't replace it, not really. I'd buy a new one and pay for the shipping but I'd know every time I felt it on my skin that it wasn't the real one, it wasn't the one I bought when I was there. Yet I still think a replacement is better than this empty lurching I feel every time I reach up and touch my neck and feel nothing at all.

In Hawaii I was told that if I threw a lei into the ocean and it came back, that meant I'd return someday. I was 11 and knew that was ridiculous because obviously the tide would wash the lei back to shore, but I threw one anyway and it came back to me. I returned three years later. In London I put the necklace on and told myself I'd wear it until I came back to Stonehenge, because that meant I had come back to England, hopefully forever. I feel disappointed that the necklace didn't last more than a few months, but then I feel disappointed that I believed it would last years (or more - the Queen only know how long it'll take me to find a way back).

But despite the pain, I can't get rid of the pieces. They will sit at my bedside and I will mourn them with every glance but I could never sentence them to some landfill. They will remain with me, even though I can't wear them, until I do, finally, make it to England for good. I will take them on the plane and carry them in my pocket and bury them in my backyard as the sun sets on British soil.