Love is forever…One woman’s journey with grief

You may recall that three months ago (dang, has it been that long?) I created a semi-faithful replica of the bracelet I’d made A.  That bracelet was the only thing I asked his family for, but I did not get anything from them at all.  I’ve always assumed the bracelet went to them as one of the personal effects on him when he died, and I asked almost immediately to save it from the crematorium.  It occurs to me today for the first time that maybe it did go into the fire with his body; I would actually prefer that it went with him, his for eternity, than for it to be sitting in some box in someone’s basement, if it could not be mine.

But I made a new one, using different dark beads because I didn’t have more of the black ones I made the original with.  And I rationalized all kinds of healthy, “moving on” symbolism in the differences, which at the time I believed whole-heartedly, and I still do see my point.

However, today when I was working on a project, I was looking through my miscellaneous bead bin for a small black bead to use as a bird’s eye.  The first potential bead was too big for my purposes, but it  looked familiar to me.  It looked for all the world like one of the black beads from the African necklace A gave me, and that I’d shortened, using the beads I’d took off the necklace in the bracelet I made him.  And then there was another one, and another yet, and I realized that was exactly what they were.  They were not the standardized beads you can buy in bulk at any bead store; they were slightly irregular, each one unique.  I spent several minutes picking through the entire bin and found I had a bunch of those beads I was certain I had no more of.  Enough to remake the bracelet, the one I’ve been wearing non-stop for 3 months, as I’d originally intended.

As I picked beads out of the hodge-podge, I pondered whether it was worth it.  Was it going backwards?  As I said, I’d come up with some good reasons why the hematite beads I ended up using were just fine, and symbolic in their own right.  Was I just full of shit that day?  To a certain extent, yes; I was looking for ways to lessen my disappointment at being unable yet again to have the bracelet I wanted, even in one I was making myself.  It got me over the mental hurdle, and I needed that help.

I also considered the significance of picking those beads out of a riot of other beads and junk in that bin.  That junk bead bin was, in that moment, my life—some pieces a tangled mess, some pieces missing parts, some glimpses of sparkling beauty, some parts entirely beyond repair, and me looking for just one little thing, not sure if I’d find it.  And then I found that the ones I had lost, and had been sure were gone forever, were right there.  Little pieces of him everywhere I looked in my bead bin of a life.  Nothing, it seems, is really ever lost, even when you think it is.

By the time I picked out all the black beads, I had decided that I am going to redo the bracelet, and make it as close to the original as possible.  Regardless of anything else, it’s what I wanted to do to begin with, and I know it will be a comfort.  I was willing to settle for a reasonable facsimile when I had no choice, but now that I have the option to, I want the beads he touched closest to me, pressing close to my heartbeat.  

Jesus, I miss him.