Without conscious thought her hand went to the object that hung on a cord about her neck. Carved of white bone, the incised whorls and lines between her thumb and fingers were reassuring. The pad of her finger sought the point, tested it. Still sharp, unnecessarily sharp. The stylized fish hook would never actually pierce the lip or the palate of a watery denizen. No food would be procured by its agency, unless by the luck it carried and bestowed on its wearer. The hei matau's power and usefulness was all in its given form, and in the texture beneath her fingertips.

Her hand moves reflexively to the pendant at her throat. The metal warms easily to her body, and she savours the smoothness as she spins it between her fingers. Sometimes she wears it around her neck, sometimes at her ears, or hung around her house -- but stripped of all possessions, she'd still have it inked into her skin, but even before that ritual act, it was burned into her psyche.

She remembers that first ring, given her by her mother and soon lost. She remembers poring through the encyclopedia and history books, rapt.

She remembers, and she spins it.

::notes similarity between Beverly's drabble and hers::

::laughs::

Memento Mori

I wasn't shopping, but there it was, sitting on black felt: a man's ring, sterling silver. Mounted was a miniature piano key, white with a perfect tiny black key.

I rubbed it. The key was old ivory, made from a real piano key. Of course I bought it, put aside for the right moment.

Shortly afterward, we were over.

I only saw him once after that, at a show he was playing. I don't remember what we said, but I gave him the ring, and left, again. That was twice I left.

He's dead now. I wonder if the ring survives, somewhere?

Oh, yes ita--both of us with things around our necks.

Deb, wow.

Y'all, make me go be suspenseful and brilliant or something, and stay away from scary fandom Farakhan wanna-bes who piss me off and make me want to be a blue-eyed devil for, like five minutes. And I haven't skipped a day at the desk in about three weeks.

True story, Bev.

I wrote about it in a locked-down livejournal entry a couple of months ago. One more thing I'd forgotten about, that ring, until Marlene reminded me. She remembered the miscarriage I had, too. Someday, if the memory and the drabble topic combine on that one? I'll sweat it out.

Anyway, as Buffy put it, there's always a talisman...

The ring sounds absolutely incredibly beautiful, and just like something you'd give him. I had no doubt it was real. I'm just glad, if you are, that you've remembered it.

It was beautiful. It had tiny, perfectly crafted silver finger tips holding the mounted carved piano key in place.

Damn.

Go Deb!

I would be having way too much fun coming up with a psudonym at this point, myself.