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When I was a blushing bride of twenty, (brides blushed back then), my husband to be, who was from a very well to do family (from my perspective), gave me a lovely string of pearls for my wedding gift. This surprised me because I simply couldn't imagine him even entering a jewelry store. When I subsequently asked him what store they came from the mystery was solved. His mother had picked them out for me. The pearls became my most cherished possession. Not only because I was aware of their worth but because they were part of the biggest day of my life. I always wore them with appreciation and pride whenever I felt the occasion warranted it. My own mother passed about five years later. From her meager estate, I was given the string of cultured pearls my well-to-do uncle had given her. She had always been duly impressed with what she called her "matched pearls" and their value. Maybe that's part of the reason I was so attached to mine. On the way back home from the funeral, I stopped to visit my mother's dearest friend, then residing in another state. They had always been very close when I was growing up and I knew my mother loved her deeply. I choose to give her friend my inherited string of pearls, since I had my own. Another five years passed, and even after very careful handling, my string of pearls eventually broke. Money was scarce but I finally saved up enough to approach a local jeweler to get them restrung. He was abashed. "Why", he asked? I was abashed, and not wanting to sound hopelessly sentimental, which I was, I answered "Because of their value, of course." Moment of truth...my pearls were fake and worthless. There was no other way to put it. I still had them restrung because, to me, they remained of great value. The years went by and I still wore my pearls when I dressed up. I admit that I sometimes thought about the strand my mother had left me and wondered if her friend ever wore them...though I never seriously entertained the idea of asking for them back. I knew they were appreciated and what was done was done. Our children grew up, my husband passed and I became a Senior Citizen--not old, of course, but privileged and honored--which sounds a great deal better. My youngest son became a minister, then a therapist, and subsequently a lecturer before the e-world swallowed him up. Part of his work took him to other countries and one trip took him to the Island of Majorca in Spain. When he returned, he presented me with a gift, which was not his usual custom since travel for him was not a novelty. I opened the black velvet bag. Deja vu. Inside was a string of perfectly matched, cultured pearls. I was stunned. He knew nothing of my "pearl experience" and yet, almost half a century later, the cherished son of the beautiful man I had married so many years before was drawn to add another chapter to my story. Isn't it possible that it wasn't an accident? Isn't it possible that the long-gone players in my little drama, his grandmother, his father, my mother and even her friend, all played a part in using my highly intuitive son to write a happy ending? Why not?
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