My Pearls

When I read a book I always read the last chapter first, yes I need to know the ending.
I need to know if when I finish the rest of the book if I will miss it. You see for me most books I read become friends, some to laugh with, some to identify with and some to cry and morn with.

Recently with great struggle I finished a book, just a paperback that I had picked up somewhere, at the moment I can't even recall the title.
Honestly it was a book I finished only because it was cold and I had nothing better to do.
You know the one, bad marriage ends, the main characters mother passes away, the fight with the ex over who gets the kids.
The one that always ends with, a perfect new love who was there waiting all along, a relationship rediscovered with an estranged sister and of course shared custody of the well adjusted kids.
And her house is perfectly decorated and clean.
Oh we are all so happy.

One thing still stood out though, as "Claires" mother is dying(after a long valiant battle with cancer of course) she mentions her "pearls" and those belonging to Claires grandmother. Thinking perhaps that the cancer has invaded her mothers brain "Claire" gently points out that there was never money for any frivolous extras.
Her mothers calm reply "Then my daughter you have not discovered your pearls yet. Find them."

Well, I went searching and I found mine, quit quickly really.
Strands and strands of them.
I discovered them draped protectively around my shoulders wrapped around my neck and upper body like luminous armour.
Some I found were perfect; matched in size and color, almost gaudy in their showy look at me largess.
Many though while just as perfect were much smaller, the memories of their making silent shadows revisited with quiet joy and tender smiles.
They hang perfectly spaced strung on gorgeous silk threads, placed with such detail that all who see them look on with jealousy and longing.
They are the pearl of firsts. First loves, first joys, and first heartbreak, the forever I do, and the eternal we will.
Some glow with a brilliant white light, some a softer glow. Lovingly a handful shine with gentle pastel shades of pink and blue their memories made of soft breath and first scent, tiny hands held and cheeks caressed.

I also discovered pearls that will never be shown, they are the misshaped ones, blessedly tiny and few. I can hide them in the back safely tucked in under my hair.
These are the pearls of wrong choices, misdirection.
The pearls of pain and sorrow.
Some are so small that thankfully only I know that they are there, the ones that were spat out quickly, as their memory still leaves a bitter taste. Others hang there lopsided with no real color, sharing memory but adding no life of their own.
They hang on frayed threads knotted tightly and with great spaces so as to keep them from contaminating the others with their darkness.

My pearls I discovered are still forming, they are tiny but still there, they sigh with great delight as I in awe rub them softly between my fingers. The promise with which they wink at me sends shivers of anticipation down my body as I can only wait impatiently to see what they will look like. Their size, their color.

I found in my search that not only had I discovered "my pearls" but in doing so I had found myself. I like myself and am even proud of myself. I find great satisfaction in being the wife of Mike, the mother of our many small children. The ones who will help shape the future.

For I am the collector of pearls.