Coco Chanel
I had a daughter who was made of fresh water pearls. The labor was a breeze. Soon after her birth, she was strung together by me, the mother of pearls. We’d see imposters roll along the sidewalks, looking equally smooth and creamy. Authentic. But it was my daughter who would taste gritty between your teeth if you bit her, if you tested her, because she was born in the sea. Strong enough to bare the currents, the vastness, the fisherman, she was tougher than she looked. Not just a pretty pearl. A few hours after 3pm, when the sun had already passed its daily prime, I bit myself to remind me of where she got it. Hoping I’d be reminded that I could never have been made. Made to feel. Made into something. Made from something. But on that day, trying hard not to slip away, I witnessed my own creamy softness.
