My grandmother’s necklace

 

My father's mother had a pearl necklace. Her husband, my grandfather, bought her a single pearl each year that they were married; by the time she died, it was a long string.

My husband and I don't do that sort of thing.

But this morning as I was gazing out the window thinking about the necklace, a light breeze shivered across the damp garden and a silver pearl, lying in the cup of a nasturtium leaf, tipped around and around, rolling like mercury. There was a sudden puff; it teetered over the lip of the leaf and splashed onto the ground, rebounding in a hundred tiny droplets and down again.

Did I think of the necklace and see the pearl? Or did I see the pearl, and think of the necklace?

Either way, how wealthy I am! As long as there are nasturtiums in my garden, I have as many pearls as drops of rain will bead upon a leaf.