1940s silver bracelet, in good need of polishing, hangs on the wrist of some curly-headed blonde bombshell in a tacky pink suit. There is a beret on her head, matching the exact hue of color she displays. The outfit is plastic, Barbizon. But the bracelet, stands out. Some time machine robbery? Some heir bestowed? Saved by a relative from the Great Depression? She walks around like she doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t seem to understand the value that heirloom had to the woman before her. How was it wrought? Long days and nights in a hot room? Filled with heat and the gently clanking and tapping of tools? I can smell the chemicals now. Some pirate’s treasure molted down into a dangerous liquid to be recast, born again into this bracelet that served as a makeshift ring to make good on a promise on a marriage. Engagement. When the bracelet’s all you have, the bracelet’s all you have. And sometimes a talisman, a symbol, a metaphor is better than none at all. When you’re out of slack on a lifeline and tug for them to pull you back up…A chorus of courage. A bushel of trust. Down there in the dumbwaiter there is a gift of flowers. In some Hollywood mansion that does not fit the price tag of our life, of our caste, of what was expected.