09/08 : The Broken RingIt was given on a sunny Saturday morning
sorted from the rainbow of stones and settings.
Mother of Pearl, Jasper, Abalone, Jade,
and the favored, Turquoise.
All wrapped in the loving embrace of silver
by a jeweler's hand who created far
from the table where I sat with her,
The faint smell of oatmeal cookies, age
scotch, earth from the basement, heat;
it comforted me. I knew safety.
Piece after piece of beautiful necklaces,
bracelets, watches, earrings, and rings
poured from the case.
Each one with a past.
Each one with a history.
Each one a reminder
that I, the lost child, have a place in this world.
The clocks ticked. Hundreds of them
with their painted or carved antique faces.
They sang the song that again reminded me
that time was slipping past us both.
She pulled out the intricate silver ring.
I tried it on as I had all the others.
It fit my right hand between the bottom
and the first knuckle with a swirling design.
"I wore that one when I won a golf tournament." She said.
"I never wore it again. I was afraid I'd lose the luck."
Then she covered my hand, touching me affectionately.
"I want you to have it."
Even though I'd been through the case
millions of times, every visit,
it was the only ring she'd ever given to me.
I sat in silence, taking in the moment.
That was four months before she died.
The house is gone, the possessions consumed,
money divided, years of history forgotten
into the ashes into which she became.
The ring is broken.
Her voice has faded in my head
so much that the familiar rise and fall of stories
are just words I wrote down from memory.
The way she smelled of lavender and lemons,
faintly of scotch, and sometimes sick.
The way her arms fit around me in a loving embrace
when I finally found the peace I'd sought with her.
All of that has faded into unemotional words
in a poem or a story I now tell.
But that ring. That ring was my way of remembering.
It was the way I conjured up ghostly whispers
of her in the dark of night.
It's the way I talked to her when I become scared.
It's the ring that she shared with me.
The ring is broken.
I am lost without it.
|The Broken Ring Yarrow Aug 11 : 10:56 Reply to this|
| Comments: 17 |
Registered: Jan 24 : 11:29
| I am so sorry for your loss. But this is a fabulous piece of writing....I see you and your gram sitting at that table. Beautiful.|
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