Was my first a ring of daisies or pop beads,
while I dreamed of being a princess?
Or was it a cross
meant to bless me in times of trouble?
The first I remember was a thin-chained
antique pendant with a sapphire chip.
It wasn’t mine yet,
but I coveted its sophistication and beauty.
My own first was an intersection of
old values and new love.
A marcasite cross
given by my first boyfriend.
Then there was the Indian hippie one,
outrageously priced and courageously unorthodox.
It gave me a new identity,
jangled me into my self.
No diamonds or pearls for me;
mine would be turquoise and amber.
Bold and beautiful,
searching for statement.
Now I own the antique pendant,
but covet the girl
who dreamed of princesses and outrageous selfhood,
while I ease myself into old-age wisdom.
by Lynn DiGiacomo
MyWriteSite 