December 2018, and it’s the end of my marriage. Scooping up the children and a geriatric terrier, we shuttled down the M4 corridor to begin our new chapter in West Wales. Riding the maelstrom of feelings that every separation brings, there was a feverish energy to me, sprouting of grey hairs and impulsive actions that were symbolic attempts to erase the past. I found myself in a second hand jewellers in Ammanford, presenting my engagement ring, my wedding band, my eternity ring- any jewellery of significance, of value. Except the pair of earrings I had in, which I couldn’t bring myself to part with, despite their connection to my relationship, and the significance that I was wearing two hearts that had long since gone their separate ways. Neither too big nor too small, these diamond studded, heart shaped earrings made me feel dressed, together, done- in the same way that a good lipstick or hair cut can influence how you feel.
If a jewellery box is an insight into its owner, then mine very much reflected the chapter that I was currently in. The velvet folds designated for rings was now empty, and instead there were tangles of bracelets and nests of dangly earrings strewn across the back compartment, like overdone debauched 40 year olds re-joining the dating circuit. A secret pouch on the underside of the lid- connoting the constant values I held dear- housed my beloved grandfather’s watch, and jewellery that had belonged to my Welsh grandmother. The watch strap still smells of them, their home, their lifelong commitment to one another through war, through letters during enforced separation- clean as soap, false teeth fizzing on the bathroom window sill, tablet boxes marked Monday to Sunday till death do us part.
Since my children were young, we’d occasionally get my big red jewellery box down from the shelf, sit cross legged on the bed together and bring out each item from the secret compartment one at a time, a brooch, a single earring, an old fashioned necklace, their small faces enthralled by the items, the conjuring and time travel with family members long since gone. Their favourite story to this day is how my Welsh grandparents met. Picture a local fair in Merthyr Tydfil during the 1930s. My grandfather, leggy, hazel eyed and youthful, astride a carousel horse, claps eyes on my golden haired Grandmother. My grandfather declares it love at first sight, tosses his flat cap in the direction of my grandmother in the hope she will catch it and keep hold of it until the ride finishes and not be lost to the crowds. And the golden haired girl does catch it and keep hold of it. Till death do they part.
I got out of the habit of putting my heart shaped earrings away each night. I started occasionally leaving them on the slim shelf in the bathroom whilst I showered. One morning, post shower and hair in a towel, I reached for my jewels, to find only one stud. I searched along the skirting board, behind the laundry basket, to no avail. I drew the conclusion that Mog, our magpie of a cat with an eye for sparkly things, had knocked it off the surface or towed it away as treasure. Despite my searches, after some weeks, I gave up looking and relegated the solitary remaining heart earring to the back of my jewellery box, next to my grandfather’s watch and grandmothers necklaces. I started wearing statement lipstick instead. Hermes- Rose Boisé. A lip stain like you’ve just eaten raspberries. (In a Chic, nonchalant sort way, not the effect of a four year old drawing on their own face with a big red crayon)
4 years later, and I’m conducting a cursory clean around the perimeter of the bathroom. The April Sunshine had drawn my attention to cobwebs and dust which the winter light somehow hides in its shadows. I’m using my trusted Henry nozzle with gusto and just as I am racing along the skirting board I catch a flash of diamonds and feel the bounce of something more solid than cat fur shoot up the vacuum pipe. Surely not? Like some sort of crime scene unfolding, I’m stretching out recycling bags along the carpet, plunging my hands into marigold gloves, tearing open the hoover bag into a bin liner and wading into the dust and detritus excitedly. And there it is. My lost heart. I run it under the tap and watch as 4 years disappear in the flow of water and it reliably returns to its impressive lustre.
I can’t quite bring myself to put this heart back in the red jewellery box, those two hearts long since went their separate ways. But I cannot deny that they existed together once upon a time, and I will occasionally wear them, as I wear my caesarean scar, the crepitus in my knees, the laughter lines and the kaleidoscope of chapters I have been privileged to live through.
