When Ginger gets up in the morning and first stands she looks like a newborn fawn touching down, the legs wobbly, on stilts. But I don’t stretch, it’s the discomforts of my past I remember in my joints, stumbling down the steps in a German subway in lederhosen, shoes a half size too big.
Mom has a special ring she wanted to fix so we took it to the nearby jewelry store and they studied the break but it’s not clean, it’s a hard fix, it needs a brace with the solder.
The jeweler is white, bald, wearing a tie and an apron and his hands are cold like ice, he says, always that way.
He studies the ring under the microscope and I realize one of his fingers is missing a digit, the ring finger.
He explains it’s a bad cast, something…
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