So I’m at this bar with my sister (a bar called Absinthe which, oddly, didn’t carry any brands of absinthe I recognized) and I’m crying because, well, because I’m with my sister and…oh hell, lemme just get on with the story! We start chatting with the guy next to us, or more accurately my sister starts talking to the guy next to her. We’re having a lovely conversation and I show him my new tattoo (I can’t recall why I did that, now that I think about it…total non sequitur…anyway!) and I’m about to really spill the whole feather history but instead I just say, “I found this,” and pull on my silver feather necklace.
“I found this ring,” he tells us, pulling it off his finger, “when I was riding my bike in the Mission,” and he hands me the ring. I take one look at it and say, “My friend made that ring.” He didn’t seem too impressed and slid it back onto his hand. Meanwhile, I am busy Googling my friend, Anne Arden McDonald (though I don’t know why I just didn’t type in anneardenmcdonald.com, since that’s obviously gonna be her web site) and I see the link for her Etsy page. Click, scroll and, voila! A photo of the ring this guy is wearing. I flash my gizmo at him and then he’s impressed. “You’re freakin’ me out!” he exclaims. I’m freakin’ myself out. I know it’s a small world and it seems smaller every day, so I won’t even ask “what are the chances?” Cause what were the chances that someone would randomly find my lost earring, two years later, out in the middle of the dust? Shit happens…really weird shit, even.
He went on to tell me that he’d visited a psychic, who told him that a very talented woman jeweler made the ring and that she wanted him to have it. I’ll have to ask her! I’m still waiting for someone to spot my silver feather and say they know who made it, or where it came from. Within this small world I inhabit, the chances of that happening are pretty damn good.
Now I’m in a strange house. In San Francisco. Yes, again. And no, I haven’t told any of my friends that I’m here…I’m supposed to be keeping my sister company. We’ll see how that works out. She’s in a parking lot somewhere, breaking things. Don’t even ask. Why does being here make me cry?
Well, good night….