My Grandmother's Ring

My Grandmother’s Ring

My grandmother wore her ring, a simple band of platinum and diamond. It was missing one, small stone, a secret shared between her and her husband. There was no loss there, in her face when mention was made of it, instead a secret smile crept on, and the years fell off her face. I could see the bright and beautiful girl, who put the ring on so long ago.

I never saw this ring off her hand, whether fishing, or gardening or painting. And on the day her husband died, forty-nine years, and three months after their wedding, she took it off, and passed it to my mother – to be worn, as a symbol of her love for her husband – and she never took it off. Even the doctors, could not get her to remove it, and so the x-rays of my mother’s cancer ridden body, shows a solid white band on her left hand, a visible binding of her heart to a man. He removed it from her hand, as he unplugged the machine that gave breath to the husk she once was in. At her bidding, he lovingly wrapped this ring in a note – and passed it to me.

The note said simply, “Your mother says to give this to you, you will know what to do with it. – Dad” I tucked it into my drawer.

You asked me once, what I was to do with it. You asked was it to be yours to wear. But instead, I lied and said, “It’s but my Grandmothers Ring, and you should have your own.” Happy not having to wear that old thing, you picked out one your own.

And today, ten years later, in my drawer, hidden in a fold of silk – it sits, unused, missing one small stone, a secret story it can only display, not divulge, and it waits for a hand that knows its worth.  I have none to give it to, none to honor the unbroken true love it is awash with.

And tonight I cried, alone with a note, and my grandmother’s ring.