My grandmother's ring. The ring I used to watch her twist around and around her finger. The ring she would let me try on when I played "wedding." The ring she left for me in a box lined with blue velvet, my name written in her wild cursive on a torn piece of notebook paper and stuffed in the lid. My grandmother's ring.
By the time I inherited it, I was much more mature than the little girl who used to pretend she was getting married. I was in fact married with a ring of my own. I also thought it was a little funny looking, not trendy at all. I put it in a safe place and didn't think about it again.
But, something happened when I took it out of the box lined with blue velvet. It wasn't funny looking at all. In fact, it was a tad bit trendy. And what's more, it was beautiful. It was still small and worn and not a bit shiny. But, it was beautiful. Because it was hers.
And for the last few weeks, I've caught myself staring at her ring on my hand. Staring and remembering. My grandmother has been gone for fifteen years, but I can still hear her laugh when she told one of her funny stories. I can still taste her cherry cheese pie. I can still smell her powder. I can still see that ring, twisting round and round on her finger.
Today, I got the call that my own ring is repaired and ready for me to pick up. I'll be glad to see it on my finger again. But, I'll put my grandmother's ring away differently this time. Because the older I get and the more I stand in one place and feel time rushing past me at a rate I can't control, the more I treasure my memories and the people I thought would be in my life forever, but rushed right past me to a place I can't see.
So the memories in a box lined with blue velvet will be waiting. Maybe for my daughter. Maybe a granddaughter. But, they'll be waiting. For someone to hear the stories of the laugh and the cherry pie and the powder and the ring. The ring twisting round and round and round.
