The night I met her,
She gave me a necklace.
It's silver. A pentagram. A simple little charm.
Two years later, I wear it still.
That necklace became the symbol of her.
People ask me if it's a religious thing,
And I answer no
But wonder privately if it almost is.
I hold it when I am sad, or afraid, or in need of guidance.
I've taken to...
It's silly, really,
I've taken to photographing it wherever I go-
A little silver chain on a park bench in the sun
Or the velvet cushion of a broadway show seat-
A sort of diary of my life, the places I've been,
In relation to her.
The places I've been
And still thought of her.
That necklace has rested on New York coffee counters,
Hung upon branches,
Floated in sandy shallows and caught the light.
I have held it tight during important auditions,
Felt its cold weight upon my chest during funerals,
Rubbed it between my fingers for luck on wide stages,
And pressed its mark into my wrist on lonely silent nights
(To be sure her impression was still indented in my skin.)
I have quietly kept her with me
Through every important moment of my life
And every unimportant one
As well.
People ask, still, sometimes,
Why do I wear that necklace every single day?
I tell them somebody I love gave it to me,
But that simple little explanation seems to fall so pathetically short.
I wear it because even though I hardly see her face anymore
I want to feel her fingers the way I did the night she hung it around my neck,
I wear it because its thump against my chest as I walk
Is a rhythmic reminder never to let her slip from my thoughts
No matter how far I may wander,
I wear it because there is a space in my heart
Just beneath it, under my skin,
That is that perfect, precise shape- a pentagram cutout-
And when I take it off
The hole echoes emptiness
Like the bell tower of a cathedral.