This summer, a surprise babysitting venture turned bracelet making session spurred a beading frenzy in my house. The scent of burned dust and wood frames in my nostrils as I peruse the corner of Michael’s for the perfect beads, bleached linoleum squeaking under my soles. Stars and hearts? Butterflies or letters? The 20% coupon on Michaels.com is my saving grace as I make monetary sacrifices to the crafting gods. I take home multi-colored shapes, different gauges of string, all in hopes of gifting it to you. And then I sit slouched at my dining room table, shaky hands stringing the yellow golden orange spheres and stars. The beads fall to the floor, sticking to my socks and I find them in the vacuum. I knot the string, hoping you’ll appreciate this childish form of affection.
Then I give it to you, with bated breath and crossed fingers. But you wear it. Every day. Every day I check your wrists and my bracelet is there, beads and string, stacked and tangled. Thank you, for remembering to put it on after you take it off, for never breaking it, for always wearing it, because most people don’t.