Crack The Glass

Twenty years fit into a velvet Herff Jones pouch, the one that I opened to find my Class of '94 ring in when I wasn't yet sure who I wanted to be when I grew into my jeans and learned how to finally kiss a boy. The letters are faded on the velvet, the ring still bright yellow gold with a smooth emerald stone. The titan is fighting to the left of my finger and the honor society scroll unwinding to the right.

Nerdy yes, but it still fits.

I noticed shiny things shared a home with my senior year and as I shook the bag onto the counter memories fell out.

The first pair of earrings I ever wore as an infant, the first gold hoops I graduated to, a tarnished sapphire ring my mom bought me when she wanted me love her again.

The gold Eastern Associated Terminals pendant dad got for years of service at Port Tampa. It has the company's emblem, a four-pointed star and in the center is a tiny ruby chip. Dad always smelled like concrete dust at the port and bought my sister and I M&M's and Frosty root beer from the vending machine in the break room. Jenn would sit on his knee near the water while he'd try to teach her how to skip rocks across the surface. She had a bird face then, her little lips pursed, always waiting for her to chirp.

The tiny half moon-shaped prism still on the fishing line that I cut from the shade in my bedroom when I left them all behind. I was four when my Aunt Georgia taught me about refracted light, colors and held the snowflake crystal in her hand, exclaiming it was her most favorite thing. We spent what felt like hours watching the rainbows chase each other up my grandma's wallpaper and each time dad would take me to the Florida State Fair I would look for a new one to fill my 10x10 room with bright colors and distraction.

The belly ring that embellished my flat stomach and reminded the world that I was not theirs, the hot needle searing through my flesh unlinking me from Jesus and salvation. As I look down at my innie now, which is suddenly becoming an outie, the hole still sits above it, reminding me of a time when being rebellious was better than being loved.

The thin white gold band I wore for the two years I was married to the bad boy that sat with me for six hours when I was twenty, a tattoo being inked into my flesh. A tattoo that peeks above the back of my shirt now, a warning to those lost and naive.

While all of these pieces of metal tinged with memories take me back, unravel around me, there is the one locket that I can't stop looking at, the photo smaller than a dime.

It is the only photo of me as a newborn, maybe hours old, maybe a day.

The glass is cracked across my face, symbolic perhaps.

When the doctor showed us a 3D image of my daughter last week I wondered if I was looking at a little me. I wondered if Mr. J's family would insist she was the spit and image of her dad and if I'd even know whether or not I had a case to argue. I wondered if she'd ever think it strange that I couldn't show her what I looked like as a child, my memories gone, lost when my mother was in rehab. Lost when a crew hauled out boxes of my childhood, lost when the stool I ate waffles at, the one with my initials made into puzzle pieces, my name signed in crayon, was given to Goodwill to help write off missed rent.

Lost because the crack in the glass of the locket was a sign of things to come.

I put all my memories back in velvet, drawing the bag tight to keep them there, safe.

Maybe safe from me.

Maybe me safe from them.

Either way reminding myself to tuck the locket in my hospital bag when I make it up for the impending arrival of my little one.

I will have many stories to tell her, many twists to make the ink and holes lessons as opposed to mistakes. There will be questions about her grandmother, about any baby books or proof that I was once little like she will be.

I am sure I will pull out the locket, tarnished metal, a tiny picture, damaged proof. I will wind a story around it and end with a promise.

A promise to try with all my might to never, ever crack the glass.