In my second-to-most-recent move, I moved house after living in the same place for four years (the longest I've lived anywhere, I think). Not a sentimental person by nature, I was not ready to come across something I had assumed lost, long ago, long before the most recent version of home needed packing up, shipping out.
Too, I am not one gifted with an easy memory, but this time, I sat for days (so it seemed), while pieces came back--the ones I wanted to keep. The thread, the hemp, the body of the necklace had long gone and perhaps that's the loss I'd not known I'd been mourning. But that's merely organic connection, bound to decay. These stones were here for the long-haul, and all this time, they'd sat waiting, somehow unearthed a thousand miles from where they'd begun, found in a small cardboard box in the back of a linen closet, in the middle of the country.
There is never explanation enough,
in our language, for all the magic
of this world.
(Side note: this photo, btw, is from my sister's and brother-in-law's wedding--the most fun I've ever had with lobsters, cake, and weddings, in general. If you have the good fortune to know them, then you know that anything they put their hands to will be magic and fun and endlessly memorable).