The Ring

Her skin was soft, her knuckles swollen.  I slowly
Touched the large brown spots on that were on the
Back of her hand.

Her hands were big and swallowed mine whole.  My
little fingers splayed across her palm.  I touched her
Fingers, one by one.

And there it was.  A ring, tightly held on her little finger.
So bright and shiny and green and orange and blue, in
A band of rosy gold.

I felt so bold. I reached out and touched it.
It was cold and she was old, and I asked if
I could have it.

She clasped my hand and smiled and she looked at
Me with rheumy eyes.  I held my breath and waited.
Yes she said.

And then she said, When I’m no longer here,
It can be yours.  Were it on your finger.  It will
Always remind you of me.

And when she left I cried my tears. I felt the pain of
Life without her.  I felt the rain without her.  Days and
Days of painful rain.

I knew not who put the ring on her finger.  I knew not
When or why.  But I know how it came to be on mine.
She gave it to me.

And to this day, the opal shines, so bright and bold and
It catches the light, sparkling, and reflecting love.
Pure and true.

The ring that once belonged to her.  It speaks to me
And says there was a day when she was here and held
Your hand.  Long ago, but not forgotten.

I touch her ring and feel her here.  I feel her love,
Her heart sometimes beating within me.  And know
Love like no other, from the mother of my mother.


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