08/26/2026
There are some pieces I’ve kept close because I never quite knew how to tell the story they carried.
Last Thanksgiving, Andrew was in hospice while I was away, in the midst of my divorce. His sister Isabelle called and told me that if I wanted to see him, I needed to come soon. I flew home to San Francisco.
Around that time, his wife Rachel told me that Andrew wanted to choose something for his daughter, Vesper.
This was one of the necklace he chose.
He said it reminded him of an astronaut.
Andrew was one of the earliest people to believe in my work. He and his family were part of some of my most formative years in San Francisco. They supported me, celebrated with me, welcomed me into their home, and made me feel there was always a place for me.
Andrew was the kind of friend who simply showed up. He helped me move a mattress, build furniture, and let me take over his home to host dinner parties. When I found myself in a dangerous situation, he drove four hours to Mendocino to bring me home, Taco Bell in hand, and sat with me through the darkness that followed.
Life eventually carried us in different directions, which made knowing that he was still thinking of my work in his final days all the more difficult to put into words.
I’ve learned to hold my head high through difficult things. I’ve never been very comfortable letting sadness take up space in a room, and when Andrew passed, I wanted more than anything to be useful to the people around me. Everyone was mourning, and somehow it felt easier to keep my own grief private.
But grief has a way of finding the quiet. Some nights I find myself scrolling through old photographs, and suddenly my heart aches for my friend in a way I can no longer keep composed.
Jewelry can become a quiet archive of our lives, carrying the people and memories that surround it.
This one carries Andrew.
For Vesper, chosen by her dad. 🤍
