I’m hanging up the necklace when it suddenly shatters.
Beads crash, bounce, scurry
to hide in the corners of the closet.
I could gather them. Restring, re-clamp, restore.
A wall of necklaces, my drawers of clasps and crimpers and spare beads —
they all testify to my ability to create, mend, try again.
But this day, the cold tile scraping my knees,
I am more inclined to sweep the scattered beads
into the dustbin, toss them with the trash.
Restringing is painstaking work, the necklace never quite the same.
A bead missing here, a clasp wire scratching there.
of when it all fell apart.
Not worth it, I decide, for pony beads and cheap glass with the lustre worn off.
The other choices, to repair or release? Not so easily settled.
Taking more than an afternoon, bruising more than my knees.
I weigh these beads in my hands, wonder if they’d ever look the same put back together.