The Shallows at Noon

Everyone on Roatán knew Elisha before they knew me. She's my big sister, six years ahead, and by the time I could swim she was already the girl who came back from the reef with pockets full of shells and eyes full of the deep water. I grew up in her snorkel trail — literally, kicking to keep up, always a few feet behind, watching where she looked.

But little sisters don't copy; they answer. Elisha loved the deep, quiet blue where the turtles live. I loved the opposite end — the shallows at noon, where the sun hits the white sand and the whole lagoon turns electric: mango, bubblegum, lime, the pink of a conch's lip, the neon flash of a wrasse. Her reef is a cathedral. Mine is a carnival.

So that's the jewelry I make. Candy-colored heishi stacked till your wrist rattles, smiley charms, glass beads the color of a snow-cone, friendship bracelets grown up just enough to wear to work. Pieces for the girl I was — the one at the water's edge who thought the brightest thing on the beach should be her, not the fish.

Elisha taught me how to knot a line and how to see color. I just cranked the saturation. Same reef, same two sisters — she brings the deep water up for air, and I bring the shallows home for anyone who still likes their beauty loud.

My collection is in production right now — first pieces coming to the studio soon. Follow along; the shallows are about to get louder.