Necklace

I stopped wearing jewelry years ago, the accessories crying for time and effort I wasn't willing to give.  I've eliminated many hassles from my life, pleading time as my case, as if I've just given birth to twins and cannot add any more responsibilities to my plate.  No jewelry or makeup, no blow-drying my hair, only washing it every other day if possible, covering my body in platonic dresses, flip-flops jacketing my feet, too anxious to bend down and tie shoelaces.  My father presented me with a gleaming necklace made from a Swiss coin for my eighteenth birthday, a congratulatory gift for becoming an adult and graduating from high school.  Every time I clasp the chain around my neck my back straightens, I look in the mirror, focusing on the crowned franc hanging triumphantly between my clavicles, disbelieving the girl in the mirror deserves the crown she was given.  

Ever since my ED ravaged my body, I have not worn my dad's necklace.  The pain of the gold piece knocking at my chin proved too destructive, constantly reminding me of my father's lucid conscience watching me purge away my pain.  It's easier to remove the necklace, placing it safely in a velvet drawstring sack, stored safely away where I will never feel to look.  I wonder now if he would be proud of the daughter he named all of those years ago - Stephanie, whose name means crown.