I remember my mother wearing a small, unique watch. I always thought of it as being exotic. She was from Australia, so I imagined that it was from there; that maybe she had worn it on the ship to the US after the war (WWII) to rejoin my dad. I thought that watch was pretty cool.
She apparently thought so, too, as she kept it all her life. After she died, I managed to receive it. She had put a new, unmatched strap on it, and it was no longer working. I remembered the original strap, and cut pictures from magazines to use as inspiration for making a new one. That never had to happen; I took it to a jeweler to see if they could fashion one for me, and they were able to order and attach just the right strap!
They couldn’t fix it, but that was fine, because I found a watch repair place which could take care of that. It’s there now, coming back to life. I’ll be sporting a lovely, working piece of historic jewelry very soon! I can’t imagine that it is worth the dollars I’m spending to restore it, but that’s not the point. Value is found in the attachment I feel.
The gratitude I’m experiencing is in the sweet connection to my mom. No mother/daughter angst, no drama—just warm memories from when I was a little kid, watching my mother’s watch as she wore it every day.
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