GOLDEN EARRINGS
Word Count: 346
I have at least one out of every pair of earrings I’ve ever owned since my ears were pierced at age ten and that includes the cheap one I hid in the bed of a lover I suspected of cheating. Honestly, it’s worse than socks that jump ship between washer and dryer.
This last pair was special, given to me by my husband for our fifth anniversary. He’s not the type to get mad or even so much as tsk! at me when I lose something. He’s a seer of silver linings. It saves him from trying to guess what to get me next birthday, Christmas, or anniversary. I’ve come to expect replacement gifting.
There are stories to each loss that bring up good memories and bad. There were times when I’ve no idea at all when or where I lost something, and there are times I remember it well. There are times like today, when I’ve been all over the house vacuuming and doing laundry and weeding all around the house and the gardens. Still, I emptied the vacuum bag, checked the laundry and crawled around my yard on hands and knees like a dog on a scent. I no longer bother with the metal detector; it beeps constantly as if our home were built over a junkyard. My husband does get mad when I dig hundreds of holes in the lawn.
He comes home, asks me what’s the matter, and I tell him. He smiles and hugs me close so I feel the thump of his heart between my breasts. I don’t want to be forgiven so easily–how will I learn to be careful–yet this is our way, our symbiotic routine we’ve established to handle lost earrings.
The new earrings are a little bit bigger, a little bit more oval than round. My husband’s a wonderfully lovable man. I swear to myself that I’ll be much more careful.
Oh, and the earring I left in the bed of a past lover was found, I suspect, but it was never returned to me.
