The pottery bowl that sits on my desk
          contains markers of my identity:
black leather wallet with driver’s license,
house keys, Covid vaccination record.

The father of a childhood friend made it,
          spinning clay on a wheel in his garage
a short walk from the house where I grew up,
my hometown’s name etched on the underside.

Slate-grey with a sage-green rim, it bears streaks
          of white as if splashed by cream. 
Returning items to it from my pocket, 
the lid slipped and broke in three pieces. 

My heart sank. I cursed. Much has shattered
          of my regard for the world since I was young. 
Holding in mind sorrow I have witnessed
or experienced fractures my spirit. 

The bowl, though, has a clean break, fixable. 
          My wife’s dad offers to glue the pieces. 
Please do, I say: fill the fissures with gold. 
May they stay bonded stronger than before,  

the damage lacquered to highlight repair. 
          A scar need not be hidden or disguised.  
Find grace in what befalls and is endured –
a thing of honor which deserves esteem.