Pearls of Fiction


When I was a kid, pearls made me sad.  When ladies would show off their pearls, all I could think about was the oysters that died so selfish humans could wear pearls.  I could understand people wearing furs to keep warm, especially if they ate the meat, too, but pearls were just for looks.  I hoped that somebody was at least selling the oysters for food, and maybe even using the shells for something else, but I had a sinking feeling it might not work that way.

I could imagine all the excuses grown-ups would have about it.  When the people take out the pearls it damages the meat.  The meat has to be cleaned or kept cold so it is safe to eat.  If there was one thing I noticed grown-ups were good at, it was making excuses for all kinds of things they did or didn’t do.

I am still not a big jewelry buff, but I confess I grew to like pearls.  I have endured my own grains of sand rubbing in the soft depths of my soul and pearls give me something I can hold on to.  I feel a little guilty about it, but now that I am grown up I am pretty good at making excuses for things, too.   If I am going through a rough time, I wear my little strand of pearls every day to remind me hard times can lead to something beautiful.

I just keep telling myself over and over, I am joyfully participating in the unfolding sadness of the world.  
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