I could stitch words together on the aesthetics of a scar, but I’d rather tell you how my ad hoc kintsukuroi looked nothing like those wabi-sabi cups, sagacious and gold-veined, sitting quietly all over Pinterest. The green glass Virgin, broken in two, didn’t cut me when I brushed an alcohol soaked swab along her sharp edges. She took a ribboning of epoxy and gold leaf in good spirits, holding still while the mix set, but I worked too fast, striving to set the fix with the artless grace of a Japanese master potter, achieving only the artless part. It’s right, I suppose, that the mend looks as if a five-year-old did it, since the child I am wanted so very much to heal the keepsake. A slower mending is forgiveness—of myself, for my unskillfulness, my attachment to an empty vessel full of grace, the pointer to what's gone.