Thistles

"Find your earrings," Harvard says as he heads to the kitchen to make himself some Theraflu. And I'm thinking, "God, what is it with men and earrings? They see them atop a dresser, and they can't just leave them there. They can never put them in a safe place." As I begin to examine the things stashed on top of Harvard's dresser, searching for a familiar glint of silver, I flash to thoughts of M:

I've lost upwards of three pairs of earrings in the the last year. Forgotten after an overnight at my ex M's house, I'd return less than 24 hours later and M would hand me the one--as in single--earring that he'd been able to find. "The other one has to be here somewhere," I'd say, scanning the suit coats and open books strewn about the room. But it would never reappear. Something in the water at M's house, apparently, made jewelry sprout legs and yearn for the open road. One of my favorite gold earrings, lost back in spring, is probably hitch-hiking somewhere in Canada by now, it's tiny little earring-heart swelling with the taste of freedom.

And last night it made me roll my eyes a little as I saw the small space on Harvard's dresser where my jewelry had been; here we go again. This is what relationships mean. Things get misplaced. Small gets lost in the largeness of disorganization. There's mess. There's inconvenience, there's----

I turn to start looking in a different part of his room....

There's a vase of beautiful purple and grey thistles wrapped carefully in brown paper in the center of the table behind me. And, dangling from the edge of the wrapping, are two familiar glints of silver.