Era - New By The Moonstoned custom creation with you
Materials - 14K Gold & Diamonds
Size - Approximately 14mm in height, but each charm will vary in size depending on length and handwriting
Details - Each letter is $275, chain sold separately. After you order, email firstname.lastname@example.org with an image of handwriting you want recreated. Made to order with love and care, please allow 3-4 weeks for delivery.
I was lying in bed, watching my hands as I slowly moved them back and forth in the autumn sun at my window. It was that afternoon light, the kind that makes every mote of dust in the air shimmer and catch like gold.
The middle finger of my right hand caught my eye. I stopped, staring at it in surprise and memory.
In second grade, Mrs Walters was known for being a vigilant enforcer of hand writing She would walk the crowded aisles in between desks, ruling over small hunched heads as we labored to connect the swirls and curves of our letters.
A, B, C, D...
a, b, c, d...
Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth
Over and over until it was marked with her own sharp and sweeping "A" in red ink for approval.
I took pride in my handwriting. It was mine, all my own. A hardened bump grew on my middle finger where my pencil rested, becoming tough against the pressure it took to write for hours upon hours. When reading letters or notes from loved ones, I could start to identify the writer before even seeing the name, becoming as familiar.
My writers bump is fading. Replaced instead by thumbs that can move across a screen at lightening speed, typing in a font that was decide normal enough, good enough.
I felt melancholy for the written word. I missed it suddenly with a deep ache in my chest. I experienced a sudden fear for this art form being lost with every new iPhone, Alexa or Amazon purchase.
I called my Mom and asked her to write out Henri's name, however it came to her. I didn't tell her what for.
In the mail came this project and I smiled as soon as I saw it. You see, my mother always wrote our names this way on anything that belonged to us. Pencil cases, lunch bags, coat labels, books large and bold, with the ends of each letter being capped with a small dash, making it feel somehow more important; proudly labeling what was ours.
I suppose it's only fitting that I wear Henri's name like this, for I belong so much to her.
Tell me of handwriting that means something to you. Talk to me about who wrote it. Dream with me about a time that, unfortunately, our children will think of as only history.