I wear a bead to mark every occasion. I wear a bead for every month of my life. I wear a bead to remind me of my triumphs. I wear a bead to record every sorrow.

I wear the record of my life around my neck. Some days it wears me down. Some days it’s very heavy. Most days I barely notice.

I don’t make all of the beads. I string beads every day of my life, as my mother did, and my grandmother, and her grandmother, and all the daughters and mothers going back to the days before the white men were our enemies, to the days before Europe was called Europe and the world looked south of the Mediterranean for knowledge and wisdom and culture. I share an activity with a woman who lived thousands of years ago and did the same for herself or her children or her goddess or her queen.

My daughter has very few beads. I hope someday she has so many she cannot stand for their weight. I hope that she lives to see a bead made in every color, from every material, for every person she touches and who touches her.