I found it at a cramped little store in the suburbs of Portland, Oregon in a crowded display by the cash register. Next to me stood a pale skinny bald man with a dozen piercings on his face explaining how to use fortune telling crystals. It shone in the display, my silver tree. It shone brilliantly, the only one in the case with a little splash of color. I bought it and took it home, and it became the pendant I carry.

The pendant I carry started out as a forgettable bobble, a silly little reference understood by myself alone. It hung on my door, worn sparingly and paired with swooping neck lines. I enjoyed the slight weight, enjoyed the feeling of something encircling my neck. Most of all, I enjoyed the compliments, the people telling me how much they adored it. Over time, the pendant began to feel right around my neck, gave me a tangible item to clasp when my nerves were high. My neck began to feel naked without it.

The pendant that I carry has much more meaning to me than it should. It is not particularly expensive, it is not made of precious materials. It never belonged to a loved one, was not even a gift from someone I care about. To anyone else it would just be a faded pendant with no value. The pendant I carry may not be special, but it is wholly mine.

The pendant I carry is no longer just a pendant. As I have carried it, it has begun to carry memories, become more than just a metal tree attached to some string. As each memory takes place, it includes my tree, clasped around my neck tightly.

The pendant I carry went with me to New York as I attempted to make a difference in the world by building things for the needy. As it turned out, my work crew never had to build a thing, and the pendant I carried was a steady comfort as I sat in overly plush chairs for a week, listening to the old disabled people rattle on about their childhoods. The pendant never left my neck during that week, not even as I slept. When I showered the water would hit my body, and I would blush furiously the entire time thinking draw me like one of your french girls. It was that trip where my pendant became a part of me.

The pendant I carry sees the me that no one else sees, the me that breaks down and weeps when I can no longer avoid my problems. It knows my hatred of discomfort, knows the lies I tell when asked to talk about my feelings. The pendent I carry is there when I can’t comfort people, knows as well as I do that comfort does not come from someone forcing you to forget your issues. How often have I grasped the pendant as I try to think of the right thing to say? How often do my fingers still hold it as the moment leaves? The pendent I carry is not magical, cannot fix my failure. It simply knows that all is not perfect, holds on to those memories for me.
***

The pendant I carry no longer shines like it used to. It’s luster has been rubbed off by my anxious neurotic hands. It is no longer designated only to the shirts with flattering necklines, more often hiding half visible beneath the hem of an old T-shirt. It no longer draws the compliments that used to making so appealing, is no longer anything more than the choker I wear every day. One day, the pendent I carry will be lost, the string broken, the little jewel fallen out. For the pendant I carry is simply a pendant, not a valuable indestructible necklace. The pendant I carry is not the only thing I need to be strong. One day, I will be able to face my troubles, and the pendant will not be the one that faces them for me.