But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly because you tread on my dreams. - William Butler Yeats
Sitting up straight, I run the tip of my index finger over the smooth surface of a white gold chain hanging around my neck. The necklace is thin.
I grip the chain, then slide my fingers down to the claw that holds the round locket in place. Tracing the engraving on the back, my fingers glide over the familiar structure. It's something I've done thousands of times before.
Jennifer Ann bolts out of her chair. "Where the hell did you get that?"
I freeze in place. "I um . . . Grandma Mae gave it to me."
"Give it to me," she commands.
My fingers twitch making it hard to undo the clasp. "I was sixteen." Reaching across the table, I open my hand, palm side up.