I've never regarded myself as a vintage girl.
I do love the scent of past eras, but wearing something from an age past makes me feel like I'm about to destroy a legacy.
I'm clumsy. I drop things.
I break meaningful items without planning it.
I don't own vintage items. No priceless paintings, books hand-bound in leather, no antiquitity of any sort.
Gloves. Simple, durable fabric gloves found from UFF, I think, dating back at least two decades.
They're perfect for my chilly hands in the spring (sometimes summer, too) and match gothic inspired outfits beautifully.
Jewelry is hard to break, too. I feel safe with thick silver bands and pendants.
Mom, knowing my disposition with breakable items, decided to trust me with something she'd gotten when she was young.
In the sixties, that is.
Mom watched me bloom from a strange child to a baby-bat, and rewarded me with a ring.
I remember going through the drawers of her dresser as a kid, trying on make-up, marvelling over her jewelry.
This ring was always the center-point of my fascination. It's big, it's heavy, and back then, I'd never-ever seen anything like it.
As I grew into the ring, Mom said it looks better on me.
I still treasure it.
It still is the most beautiful piece of jewelry I've ever seen.