Jaymee Villalta

Those Who Wander

My thumb ran over the familiar metal at my neck. The heart-shaped locket was once pristine. Small, silver, with simple engravings along the point of the heart that may have once been leaves. Now the locket was covered in scratches and tiny bite marks that I was told were my fault – from chewing on it as a teething baby. The inside was empty, perhaps waiting to be filled or to never be. Time had seen that the markings were indistinguishable. Much like the rest of the world.