M L S Baisch

If the Bracelet Could Talk (cover)



There is more than one way to remember: pictures, of course, take us back to times past. There is also memorabilia - things we keep, and cherish. One such is this bracelet that belonged to my mother.

Some people write poetry - actually, so do I. But even more satisfying is imagining what might have happened: filling in the blank spaces around the very few facts.

You end up with fiction. But a very satisfying sort of fiction.

This story is one such piece of fiction.


“I forget what a lovely thing you are! How my mother loved you,” I say this to myself, remembering this gift given to my mother on her sixteenth birthday. It was an exorbitant gift, this bracelet, alternately twined about in segments of spinach green and burnished gold.

In 1933 there wasn’t much money for necessities. Imagine how precious were bracelets. Duncan Robertson, though not a reader of books, was a reader of hearts. He wrapped his family round with the things that kept them truly warm. For my mother, this bracelet charmed her life until the end.

“What are you, exactly?” I wonder. "Bakelite?”

"You know that I am," the bracelet seems to say. "For years, many years now, I have lain casketed in this drawer, no satin lining mine, surrounded by the detritus of time tossed in upon me—an old watch, a broken chain, an earring separated from its mate: we mourn: here in this dark place, we mourn: laid to rest, one at a time, waiting for who knows who, but remembering that once we were loved; once displayed circling a slender wrist, strung around a lovely soft neck to dip into a cleavage suspended, clasped onto a plump rounded lobe among tresses of tickly delight—but there was a time when I was cherished."

"I see that you are cracked," I observe.

"I am not cracked!" The bracelet is offended.

"That looks like a crack to me," I say.

"I have one crack," it says. "Think of it like a wrinkle. How many wrinkles do you have, old lady? I am much older than you, and I have only one crack. Hardly noticeable. You could put me on your wrist and no one would ever see the crack. If your wrist weren't so fat!"

"My mother had a slender wrist, then?"

"Absolutely! She was not fat!"

"Still, she was only sixteen."

"The perfect age for bracelets."

"When did she stop wearing you?"

"Some things are better forgotten," the bracelet says. "I have forgotten."

"We have both forgotten things, haven't we?" I say, meaning to comfort the bracelet.

"True," it admits. "We have. And we both miss her, don't we?"

"Well, I miss her," I say. "I didn't know you were missing her, too."

"What else would I be doing? No one has rubbed a finger over me for a long time. Why don't you try?"

"You're very smooth. Someone has made you with care. You're not a knock-off, are you?"

"Whatever do you mean? A knock-off?"

"A cheap imitation," I say. "You're not one of those. You were made carefully. Six separate pieces, each laid on the diagonal; carefully fitted together and rising and falling like valleys and hills."

"Of course. Your mother was well-loved by her father. He would never give a cheap imitation."

"You do know, of course, that my mother also loved cheap imitations."

"Of course I know that! Don't be stupid. How many years did I reside in her jewelry chest? Two less than seventy! Your mother simply loved jewelry."

"And shoes."

"Don't go there."


This story will soon be released as an eBook.


Available on Amazon
Remembering When
A Photo-Journal
Remembering When - a Photo Journal

Sumpter Dredge
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 Sumpter Dredge - a Photo Journal

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