When my husband and I were dating he gave me a heart-shaped gold necklace with a tiny diamond. A month later when the bright gold faded to brown and the sparkly stone dulled we agreed that although the sentiment was real the gold was not.
On our first anniversary my husband handed me a flat blue box engraved with gold letters. Nestled in the brushed velvet was a chevron shaped gold necklace; a style that was very popular for a very hot second. He assured me that it was real and that my neck wouldn’t turn green this time.
I still have that box; it’s where I keep my jewelry that is beloved but unworn. Every so often I take it out and sift through its treasures. Some of it has been battered by time; earrings without posts and bracelets without clasps. Any piece that has a chain is hopelessly tangled into some other chain which in turn is hopelessly tangled into everything else. At the bottom of the box is a tarnished heart punctuated by a small murky stone. It is worthless; a piece of tin with a plastic bauble. It is the most precious piece of jewelry I own.
