When I was a kid we had these giant plastic beads that you could stick together into a chain.   There was one bead in particular that I returned to over and over. There is a picture of my brother and I dressed up for church, perhaps Easter Sunday? In it I am holding my purple bead in a white gloved hand and Sean is making faces at the camera, which was pretty par for the course those days.

I’ve been told that I carried the purple bead wherever I went, but I don’t remember this attachment or even playing with it. This is out of character for me. Images and physical descriptors are usually an afterthought in my memories and imaginings.  Yet it is the look and feel of the bead that I remember.  It was just the right shade of purple–rich and grapey, more red than blue.  The bead filled my hand in a way few things do now that they have gotten bigger.

Beyond this, my parents’ memories are far more reliable and entertaining than mine.