The Silver Locket by Irena Szirtes

   The lines defining her once well ordered life had tangled into scribble. Belongings tumbled or strayed. Curtains languished undrawn. Towered magazines tottered over coffee cups, curled photographs and misplaced mail. Even the sofa sank into retirement, too smooth or too creased like a well-worn saddle. She hadn't always been alone, but now there was no one to cook for or fuss over, to nurture or please; no one made demands, no one needed her. She lounged in her nightgown all day long without hearing a word about idleness; she missed lunch and snacked on junk, with no jibes about her figure.  No one missed her when she went to bed at eight, or lay quietly waiting if she stayed up until midnight.   

       “If I want to do nothing, I will”, she murmured, stepping over yesterday's chip paper toward the bureau. Her husband’s accusations still needled inside her. She took scant notice of them now, though she did feel compelled to defend herself, something she rarely did when he was alive. She hadn't had breakfast, but took a chocolate just because she could.  Life was dark, yet a glorious jumble: could it ever unravel again?

        In morning ritual, she crossed to her sole oasis of order, an obsessively neat drawer. She opened it, as usual, to gaze at her locket. Solid silver, it floated on dark velvet like a water-washed pebble in   moonlight. It smiled, as it did on her neck years ago, when he teased it with his fingers. He was still man then, and young. She smiled her secret smile, remembering those locket fingering nights: astounding memories for the timid, awkward young girl she once was! When she first met him, bolder girls would feign friendship with his sister, flirt shamelessly, scheme to get a date. They were stunned when the girl they labelled “Little Miss No-go-Granny-fanny,” was the one he finally pursued. How riveting he had been! She wondered if her face had aged as much as his, before the end came. Surely not! He had died too young, and she was barely sixty. Surely it was a mature, but not elderly face people saw, on her brief forays to the library or chip-shop.

    Her thoughts were interrupted by a second, completely unexpected smile.  The debris of depression was all around, but she smiled. She smiled at a sudden pin-prick of lightness, an unfamiliar echo of barely remembered well-being. She smiled because her musings had failed to usher in the all-too-familiar black fog. The fog was thinner, grey rather than black, and memories seemed slightly displaced, almost as if they belonged to a different self.                              

       Yes, she had loved him. Their roots had been tightly tangled. She would have defended him with the tenacity of a she-wolf, even when frustration was raging, roaring inside. But he had been high maintenance.  He needed her-well-too much. And he always made a point of telling her how very much she needed him, too. She thought she should feel rather guilty about that smile. Yesterday she would have, but not today, because something faint, yet intriguing, was beginning to beckon from beyond the greying fog.

   “Maybe, just maybe- he wouldn't have believed it-not in a million years-but could I REALLY be ok without him? It’s like I might get to-well- be content on my own!”

   This outrageous idea, flickering and fragile as part-blown candle flames, was trying to entice her from beyond the fog.  Excitement sparked briefly in her gut. Should she take on the grey and begin stepping through? Could she really do it? Did she even want to? The fog could be blackest night, but it was familiar, and had kept her well-hidden. Tight as his grave, it held him with her always, still trying to meld her identity into his. Unsure what life might look like beyond, without him for ever, she stalled. Today she would continue to live without rules, without routine. Motivation might be stirring in its sleep, but doing as she pleased, twelve months on, was still uncharted territory. Disorganised felt sweet and subversive. And grey, after all, was better than black.

       But something had shifted. The locket refused its daily relegation to the drawer, and demanded to live again. It hadn't faded like his photograph, or dated like her wedding dress. It was still bright and powerful, summoning the day his eagerness had dropped it in her hand. That moment, their most magical Valentine's so many years ago, was as real to her now, as the trembling depths of her own being. But like her, the locket had glimpsed a possible future, and was determined to travel ahead through the fog. It cried out to be sold, to fulfil its purpose, to inspire and delight new lovers.

   “Never! I could never sell my locket!” Nonetheless, she opened it, removed the photographs, and placed them carefully at the bottom of the drawer.

 “Of course, if- when I do, there’d be extra cash, mine to do what I like with. I might buy... well, I know just the thing, a funky hat!” This rebellious idea felt surprisingly good.

 “And I might just wear it, then visit museums and coffee shops. Maybe I could even make a friend- then again, that might be hard, I never was like other girls.”

    With the hat pictured clearly, she should organise herself, because Valentine's Day was fast approaching. She should get dressed, defy the fog, take an advert to the Newsagent, even dust off the computer and get to grips with local market places. She must brave the grey one step at a time, before suffocating black tried to close in yet again.

      But not today, not yet. Today she would eat chocolates, read as long as she wanted, and then write out the advert.  She could see it plain as day:

          “For sale: Silver Locket. Vintage, superbly hand-crafted, one of a kind. Inscribed with intricate and interlocking hearts, decorated with 3 diamonds. The perfect Valentine's gift. Any reasonable offer considered.”