Lost

Kenji and I shared our first kiss somewhere on the streets in Florence. It was night and we were totally drunk. The second day we kissed properly, on the
most romantic (and corny) spot of the city: the Ponte Vecchio.
Four years later we stood at the exact same bridge. It was our honeymoon and we had returned to the place where it all started. Foolishly romantic (and corny) as well. Kenji offered to buy me a golden bracelet in one of the mouthwatering jeweller's shops and I walked up and down the medieval bridge, trying to pick the most beautiful of them all.

After many strolls I found a gorgeous piece of Florentine craftsmanship: a bracelet with small filigrain balls. Ever since that moment in October 2005 that I put it on, I've been wearing it (e.g. on this and this Mirror Monday picture). A token of Kenji's undying love on my arm.

After I dropped Big Brother off at preschool today, I noticed my bracelet was missing. I knew for sure I had put it on and I remembered how rushed I was this morning, which made me start to fear the worst. Indeed, no matter where I looked, or whoever I asked, my bracelet was gone. Lost.
Without foreknowledge, without even noticing, something so dear to me was suddenly not there anymore. I don't cling to worldly goods much, but cherished this tangible memory of my honeymoon beyond words.

The good life can be gone in seconds. And that realization turned my melancholy into grief: I lost something dear, but what if I'd lose someone dear? If I cannot stand losing a golden bracelet with so many memories attached, how on earth would I cope with the loss of my loved one? "Live, you have to live!", I told Kenji.