At the nursing home - the first one - I dutifully removed Mama's ring - the one Harold gave her - from her right hand, using liquid soap to slide it off her finger. "Residents' personal items such as jewelry should be removed and kept in a safe place." Oh, Mama. You said you hadn't had that ring off in years. And I bet you didn't even know two tiny diamonds were missing. What must you have thought, me soaping your swollen finger to "do my duty" and abide by the home's rules? My ring. It's so hard to get off. I may never have it back on. But Pat has it now, and it's okay. It's safe. She'll keep it safe for me. I hope you thought that, knew that I'd keep it for you.
Last Saturday I found the mounting for the ring with the opal set. But the opal was missing. So of course I will have it replaced/repaired and put to rights again, for you, Mama, in your memory.
There was another gold and silver band in the little bathroom. Inside it says 14 K. I don't know where it came from. It was practically overlooked, hanging on a dowel, part of and underneath a small cabinet. I put it on my finger, claiming it, too.
They all also happen to be my size; so we wore the same size ring, anyway, my Little Mama. I don't want to have them sized up or down, so I'll just continue putting them on my ring fingers until those last finger joints are full and my knuckles won't bend any more.
Mama wearing her opal ring.
Rings represent commitment and promises to keep, and I promise to keep your memory.
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