Years ago in the Arab quarter of Jerusalem, during their Ramadan, when money is needed for the all-nighters they pull, a silver merchant chased me through the crowd to meet him in the middle between the high price he wanted and the low price I wanted to pay for a hand wrought silver bracelet.
I dug in my purse for the exchange. He bounced back to his stall smiling after he hooked the clasp around my wrist.
A small border piece broke off on the side soon after. I have worn it ever since, but it looks like it is missing a tooth. The piece was saved, except I couldn’t find the hiding place where I had put it away so safe. I kept putting off trying to find out if it could be repaired.
Fast forward to today, several years since that day. As I was doing laundry I saw something sparkling in the bottom of the empty basket. It was the missing tooth, forsoothe! Impossible.
I took it to our local jeweler this morning for repair. He tried to solder it on while I watched. It didn’t take. He is making me a new tooth to fill the gap. I pick it up tonight.
Since the time I bought that bracelet and today, there is a bridge of healing that spans a river of pain. I don't know if there is an architectural category for this type of bridge, but it has deeply embedded footings on both sides -- into rock.
I like it that the old piece didn’t take and another has to be made new. It isn’t the bracelet that is in the middle of the miracle, it’s me having my own gaps retrofitted and repaired.
Makes me kindred with stories of wine being put in new skins instead of old and doors that have outgrown their frames.