Not Everything is Disaster

That spring, when I shared space
in a cramped AirBnB RV trailer 
with one of my daughters, 

I couldn't remember taking off 
the intricate beaded necklace 
I'd brought to wear

at a conference, though I remember 
putting it on that last morning. 
But when we went our separate 

ways, she flying off to North 
Carolina and me back to Virginia, 
I couldn't find any trace of it 

in my purse or in my luggage. 
For a moment, but only just, 
I thought about e-mailing 

the owner to ask her
to help me look for it. But   
if I couldn't remember if I 

still had it on when we returned,
then couldn't it be anywhere? 
I could sigh about how much 

it had cost, how women in South 
Africa threaded each bead to make 
such striking geometric shapes. 

But I thought of Bishop's door 
keys, her mother's watch, her 
rivers, homes, and continents; 

a quake, a storm swirling its spiked 
coronet over the Pacific. There's 
disaster, then there is disaster.