It was the only time I’ve ever bought myself better jewelry. It was an impulse. They were the perfect divorce gift. Although not usually a jewelry person, I love them and all that they celebrate.
There is nothing proper or pristine about them. They are neither trite…nor polite. They don’t stand at picket-fence-perfect attention or march virtuously across my skin. No Pearls of Innocence, these.
To me, they are smoky, exotic. They are sultry sunset-lustered and night-nacred. They are city lights in the rain. They are oil slicks on blacktop after a race. They are a Caribbean adventure. They are the sea just before sunrise. They are the anti-June Cleavers.
And they represent a promise to myself, my black pearls, that I will take me for better or for worse, that I will honor me all the days of my life. And that I will stay true to myself, always.