Anklet

It is hand hammered and slightly broken and distressed silver with tiny bells. It is heavy on my ankle.

"I don't know," I tell the jeweler. "It's beautiful but too much. Too much of what I like. Maybe I even like it too much." It is a sad anklet. You can tell by looking at it.

"You come here every year," he says. "Your mother did too. And your grandmother. I remember her."

Maybe this is his way of offloading the anklet on me. But he's right. My mother used to buy jewelry here. And my grandmother before her. People remember my mother and grandmother. They have that kind of presence. My mother is with me. She rolls her eyes. She doesn't buy into that kind of bullshit.

"It's made for you, broken and distressed and antique. Most people don't like this kind of jewelry. Most people like new and shiny," he says. I don't know if this is entirely true or if he's just a really good salesman.

"Can we have a minute?" I ask him. I turn to my mom.

"It probably belonged to some poor villager or farmer. Probably had to be sold to pay off debts. It is a sad piece," she says, reading my mind. She picks it up, assess it in her hand, shakes her head.

"But someone is going to buy it eventually. And it is an unusual piece. But you'll have to bury it in the earth for five days to get the energy out. Then you can wear it."

Bury it in the Earth. But where can I bury it? I could bury it in my backyard space, but I'm convinced there are weird chemicals in the ground near my house. That's why the tangerines from the tangerine tree taste metallic.

I can't bury it in the park down the street, someone will find it. Finally, I bury it in the terra cota pot of the money plant in the living room. I use a spoon. Then I wait for it to forget its past, forget its story. I wait for the anklet to be reborn without the memory of its past life, without the memory of a sad separation from its owner. Who did it belong to, this sad, pretty hand-made piece? I imagine her as a woman who lives in the desert and wears antique silver jewelry and speaks a Rajasthani dialect. I imagine her in bright cotton saris, magenta and orange and yellow. I imagine how sad she was to have to sell the anklet to pay her debts, the anklet that had been in her family for five generations. This is the story I choose to believe. I thank her for trusting me with anklet, and I tell her I'll take care of it and think of her when I wear it.

I unearth the anklet five days later and wash off the dirt. It is less sad now, and ready to start its new life. This is why I like old things. Everything means a little bit more when it has a story.