My granddaughter knew it was my favorite,
She was not supposed to touch my china cups.
She loved it because of the gold around the edges —
That little ring of light that caught her eye.
It slipped, as precious things sometimes do,
And broke into pieces on the floor.
Tears came fast, because she knew.
But in Japan there is a word,
A beautiful way —
Kintsugi.
We do not throw the broken away,
We do not hide the crack.
We mend it with gold.
And now it is more beautiful than before,
For the gold tells a story:
Little hands that wanted to hold beauty,
And a Grandma’s love that holds tighter still.
It is not broken.
It is mended.
With gold.
For my Grandma’s Katybug