Forty-four years on her wrist.

Her first communion, confirmation, graduations from nursing school, a master's program conquered in her 40s.

A bagpiper signified a trip to England and Scotland. A snowman from her godson, an Easter Bunny. A small prayer box, decorated with various crosses, with a chunk of blue sea glass inside, plucked from a Gloucester beach. The births of two daughters, Jeanette, 21, and Charlette, 19, and a son, Andrew, 23.

A trip to Block Island with Chuck, her husband of 24 years. A kayaking trip to New Brunswick.

Twenty-plus charms, on a sterling chain, on her wrist since she was 7.

The chain was so full, the jeweler wondered where the next charm would go. But they found a place.

People at work knew when she was walking down the hall.

Jingle, jangle, jangle.

Her story, told in little charms. Until Oct. 28.

She tossed it in the car to put on later. It vanished, between her house and an Enterprise Bank ATM machine. Outside the ATM, she noticed.

She

has scoured her driveway. Ransacked the car. Looped her movements in her mind.

Did it fall from my lap? Maybe it was swept down a gutter. She looks in places she knows it isn't, just in case.

She posted fliers. Retraced her steps, then again, eyes down. Called the police. Nothing.

When times were rough, the charms brought comfort.

She feels naked without her life's timeline.

And selfish for feeling that way.

It is only a thing, after all, not a person.

"But it told the story of my life," she says.

Maybe someone found it. No one else could ever know what it means. It was her personal code.

If you have any information, call her at (978) 459-7043.