Nestling at the bottom of the jewelry box, among the paste and sparkle, was a pair of earrings with some puzzlingly sharp spikes on the back. The hand-written label said £4. I put them on cautiously, but the sudden shock of pain switched on a light in my head and I realized what they really were – a pair of Victorian shoe buckles for gripping tough old shoe leather, not soft earlobes. They came off faster than they went on and straight into the ‘for sale’ pile, for which mum had originally labeled them.

In my imagination I can place the buckles on her pink silk shoes as she waltzes round a dance floor, and if I dip into the box again, I can find any number of things to hang similar stories on. But stories is all they would be. I have no idea what was hers and what was not. Alongside her own beads she accumulated jewels to sell, and her stock, sometimes labeled, sometimes not, is strewn about her own treasures.

This glittering hoard has lingered here for some time now, in a closed box, the potential for story their only saving grace. This is the tyranny of objects which runs my life, not just in the jewelry box, but everywhere. I am forever stuck between emptying the box for good, or preserving it as a story-filled museum box.

Today though, who cares. The baubles sing with possibility, and I need to open the lid and dream. If it were empty, what would be the point?