Does this ever happen to you, a banal moment, a faint hum, then words and harmony, the sound fills the space and the moment becomes an event, enlivened with a reverberating song, and then, faster than it started, the sound track ends and I hear the dishwasher, kids' utensils clinking against their bowls, the humid air, and my husband's voice asking where the paper towels are?
Jefferson Airplane has been playing in my head every morning all week, while I stand at the kitchen sink looking at the two necklaces. The necklaces are usually in my jewelry box, but I've realized it's easier to just keep them on the ledge above the kitchen sink.
One pill makes you larger
And one pill makes you small
And the ones that mother gives you
Don't do anything at all
Go ask Alice
When she's ten feet tall
One necklace is gold, from a trip through Egypt, a cartouche with hieroglyphics that say Beatrice (amusing and absurd), on a heavy gold rope chain. It belonged to my grandmother - a matriarch, a powerhouse, a feminist, and a true believer in me. The other is a Victorian piece, cut crystal and silver, translucent and delicate, found by my cousin an antique watch dealer in London. It was given to my mother - an adventurer, caregiver, mystic, truth seeker, and a true believer in me. She gave the necklace to me last year.
One necklace makes me bigger and one makes me strong. They were both given to me by strong mothers. As I put it on and clasp it around my neck, I think about the associations with these powerful women. Today I am strong.
When the men on the chessboard
Get up and tell you where to go
And you've just had some kind of mushroom
And your mind is moving low
Go ask Alice
I think she'll know
Written by Grace Wing Slick • Copyright © Universal Music Publishing Group