The Rhinestone Bracelet

Digital art collage by Stella Kalaw

My friend Lissa watched with trepidation as I opened her gift.

“I wanted to get something special for your 60th,” she said, nervously twisting her late father's silver ring that always sat on her middle finger. “I know you don't wear bracelets much, but....”

Lissa knew me well. I don’t wear bracelets often. Almost any type is an annoying, awkward encumbrance on my small wrists. Even my sweet sixteen gift from my much-loved Aunt Molly joggled uncomfortably on my wrist. How I cherished that elegant silver piece of jewelry that signified my near-adult status. But I rarely wore it.

There were many others: the silver charm bracelet, iron bangles, a whimsical plexiglass half-bracelet with an embedded turquoise feather. Some of these bracelets still languish in a drawer or jewelry box, a cluttered heap of memories. Many have disappeared.

Lissa’s gift was a bracelet with multiple delicate strands of bronze-coloured metal woven together, each strung with tiny crystal rhinestones. As she fastened the clasp, the bracelet settled comfortably against my wrist, the crystals catching the light. It was elegant, subtle, and quirky—something you might stumble upon in an artisan’s shop in Florence.

“I love it,” I said. “A perfect fit.”

Her shoulders relax as we hug. Nor auf simchas, we tell each other in Yiddish, just as our grandmothers would have done. It was our verbal talisman—enough bad things happen in life, may we have only joyous occasions ahead. And the next ten years were mostly joyous until 2016 when the glioblastoma massing in Lissa’s brain silenced our shtetl incantations.

Eight years later, Jacqueline, Lissa's only child, is getting married.

My mom would trust you and Rachel to speak for her, she writes, asking her aunt and me to represent the mother of the bride. I weep reading her words. It's a weighty responsibility—Lissa had high standards.

Through numerous Zoom sessions in the months before the wedding, Rachel and I struggled to balance how to speak about Lissa to those who never knew her while channelling what she would have said on her daughter's wedding day. Our first draft feels too much like a eulogy. We start again, bantering stories about mother and daughter, our conversations veering between tears and hilarity.

Finally, we find our balance. Rachel will speak about Lissa as the eldest sister, always there for her, whether she welcomed her presence or not; about Lissa’s magic way of making children feel seen and heard; about her compassion for others and for the common good.

“What if I say that while Jacqueline shares many of Lissa's values and attributes, she is her own woman—and Lissa would be the first to celebrate those differences?” Rachel suggests.

“Perfect,” I respond.

I'll draw the portrait of a wisely opinionated woman, the queen of spreadsheets, a gardener and chef who always took the time to do a task with precision and care. I’ll speak about a friend with whom you could bare your soul and laugh about foibles, our own, but preferably, those of others. I'll tell them about the afternoons when Jacqueline and I repeatedly dressed and undressed Barbie and Ken, how I let her say 'bathroom words' while Lissa rolled her eyes.

“Obviously, those play times led directly to Jacqueline's career in medicine and community health,” I joke.

“That has to go in your remarks!” Rachel insists. We make a good team, the kid sister and the older friend.

It's time for our speech. As I slip on my new purple and black swank jacket, the lining of the right sleeve catches on the rhinestone bracelet. Of course, I am wearing Lissa’s gift on this of all nights. I tug at the fabric, but the bracelet hangs on, pinching the skin above my wrist. I pull harder, feeling flustered.

Rachel is already at the podium. I make my way to the front of the room, doing what I can only describe as an interpretive dance with the sleeve of my jacket. There’s sympathetic laughter from women in the crowd when I shrug apologetically and say, “My bracelet is caught in my sleeve.” I take a deep breath and begin.

Back at my seat, the jacket slips off effortlessly; there’s no sign of a tear. When I go to adjust the bracelet, it falls from my wrist. My 11-year-old granddaughter, sitting next to me, leans in to examine it. She finds two tiny links that have pulled apart between the rhinestone strands.

“Don't worry, Bubby,” she whispers. “This can easily be fixed.”

Later, amid the celebrations, Rachel and I find a quiet corner to debrief. We are both struck by the obvious. It was Lissa gripping my arm through the bracelet, letting us know she was there as we spoke, her joy glowing in each rhinestone’s light.