When I was 12 years old my mom bought me a necklace
That I was not allowed to wear.
It was silver,
with a little charm in the shape of a box
That had a little latch
And a heart on the side.
The idea was that you'd wear it until you had your first kiss
Your husband, supposedly
And then you'd give it to him.
Like a purity ring, but not.
Like a locket for something that hasn't happened yet.
But when I asked to wear it,
My mom's accusation needled at my heart
I am too young for kisses
And pretty necklaces, apparently.
I am 16 years old
On some boy's couch
Forrest Gump is on the tv
And the necklace is across town
At home
In the back of my mother's sock drawer
And in the back of my mind, I imagine it melting
Glowing red-hot
Then becoming a little silver puddle
Exactly like I feel.
That boy was not my husband.
And neither was the one after that.
Years later
I find it again
Quite intact, not a puddle
It doesn't burn me to touch
For a long time I didn't know what to do with it
Do I give it to my sister?
My daughter someday?
The boy with long-kiss, short-breath, I-think-I-love-you couch?
I can't wear it - can I?
My dad told me once
That kisses
Are promises
And not to make promises
I can't afford to keep.
I've made a lot of promises.
Some I kept.
Some I didn't.
But this is my innocence,
And I'm taking it back
This is not a First Kiss Necklace
Or even a Second-First Kiss Necklace
But it is a Next Kiss Necklace.
And I don't say this as a girl who doesn't know
How hard it is to say no
When all you want to do is say yes,
I say it as a woman
Who knows all the weight
Of every promise
She's ever made.
This is a Last Kiss Necklace.
