Silver Chain

I have a charm bracelet adorned with figurines of grandeur, one for each production I've partaken in since I discovered that when I step onto a stage, something inside me sparks hot and I melt into my "atman" or essential self. (Thanks for the vocabulary, Mr. P.) There's a dainty silver snowflake for the fifth grade play - I was overwhelmed with the small song I zipped through as "Snow Angel," the coveted number of every blonde, skinny-jean-wearing girl I had become accustomed to, and overtaken for once. There's a cupcake for the failed production I jumped into for a week in North Carolina as we rummaged through my grandmother's disintegrating family portraits and forgotten birthday gifts - I can still recall the way the thrift store's gray cloak felt on my tiny shoulders as I swept through the Southern dust and pretended to live on the city streets. Imagine that.

Currently, the charm bracelet is in a small tupperware with the two newest charms jangling beside it. The box is tucked behind a ruler and an oilcloth in a hodgepodge closet half an hour from here, muffled by the folds of my lost winter jacket, thrown over the whole mess. At some point, my mother will pry apart two links in the chain and slip the memories on. That's when they will cease to be the yesterday and become the once upon a time. Once upon a time, this life will read, there breathed a girl named Chloe. And eventually, she learned how to live.