Broken shard

I bought this necklace in Castine. It's made from a broken pottery shard found on the beach, like sea glass. It's a piece of brown transferware. A local told me that the British used the pottery for ballast in their schooners, tossing it into the sea as they pulled away from the shore. Only these remnants remain, found occasionally amongst the mussels and seaweed and stones.

A psychic once told me that in a past life I was an aristocrat. I lived a highly privileged life, wanted for nothing, and spent my days refining my abilities in the arts. But I was socially isolated. I would lean against the window of my ivory tower and gaze out at the gardeners, envying the way they joked and teased each other. I longed to run through the fields barefoot, ride a horse with my hair flowing behind me, galloping toward the unknown.

The psychic said I came into this lifetime with the artistic talents I had developed in the last, but not the high standing. I came into this lifetime to experience social freedom. I could talk to the lobstermen at the local diner, joke with the lemonade seller on the side of the road, and eat a clam fritter off a paper plate on the pier.

I bought this necklace because it was beautiful. It was while gazing out the window that I remembered what the psychic said. A remnant of a privileged life, smashed on the rocks in order to be free. A broken shard from a contained life, worn over my heart.