My pretties are gone.
My jewelry roll inexplicably disappeared some time between San Antonio and Atlanta. A little cream bag with three zippers, covered in beads and shells.
And it contained my jewelry. Not the fancy stuff-- the pieces that aren't worth much to anyone but me.
The beautiful etched silver poppy by my talented friend Alice, my gift to myself for losing the pregnancy weight-- again.
The wood necklace in the second picture, which I wore the first time I figured out how to look "put together" for a high school friend's baby shower.
The heavy, hand-made turquoise ring with UNRULY HELPMEET stamped on the band, just because I'd never owned a statement ring and wanted to have something huge on my Truckasaurus finger.
The jade and pottery shard necklace that looks so great with my plum tank top and black sweater, my go-to outfit for when I want to look awesome but not like I'm trying to look awesome.
My favorite gold earrings, the ones in the first picture with the giant elk. They make me feel like a gypsy. They almost blew out of my ears on the observation deck of the Tower of the Americas, and I turned to my buddy Krystal and said, "OMIGOD, I would totally freak out if I lost those earrings," and I put them in my pocket until we were on solid, non-tornado-windy ground again.
I feel like I didn't just lose my jewelry. I lost my stories.
If not, this post is here.
So I can remember.