I’m not one
that’s much for jewelry. I constantly wear a necklace, and I occasionally put
something into one of the four holes in my ears. I especially don’t wear rings;
it’s hard to find rings for sausage fingers. In fact, I only owned one ring.
It’s wasn’t
a fancy ring, but it was special. A single pearl sat in a gold band, with two small
chips of diamonds on either side, like miniature bookends supporting it. There
was a small dent in the bottom of the ring from something that I had done
wrong. It was a simple ring, but it held special meaning to me.
I never worried
about my ring because it sat next to her bed. Anything kept with my mother would
always have a place. It would always be safe; I’d know where it was. I never
thought anything about it because it was safe. That’s the same way I thought
about my mother. I never thought about her as anything other than being there,
because she was secure. She was my anchor, in so many ways; steady, beneath the
surface, always there, always doing its function, and yet, so often going
without the credit it is due.
Especially
to a bipolar teenage daughter finding her own way; a daughter that was much
more into her own shenanigans and social life, than into what occurs with her
family. She was like the pearl ring, I never thought of it not being there,
because it never crossed my mind that one day she might not be there.
But just as
she is gone, so is the ring. After she died, I cleaned my mother’s side of her
bedroom. It had been ransacked, robbed, violated in ways akin to rape. My
mother was a packrat, but a neat one. Everything on her side had its place, and
stayed in its place. The side of her bed that I cleaned was not the neat stacks
that I had grown up with. Her neat piles were now shifting dunes. Her dresser
had been rummaged through, her jewelry box missing beautiful pieces.
The heart
that had sat next to her bed for so many years, was gone in its entirety. I
could accept her physical heart being cremated, in a box, but the idea of that porcelain heart no longer being in our apartment was something different. I
wouldn’t have expected it to ever leave, it was an inanimate object, it couldn’t
die. It held the pearl ring just as my mother’s physical heart held my love.
But people,
siblings, took her heart, because of its physical worth. Because they wanted
money. They stole from the one person who would have gladly given her last to
them. It’s hard for me to think of that ring, with its diamond chips and dented
band, sitting in the window of a pawn shop.
I wonder if
someone bought it for their daughter, mother or lover. It wonder if that person
was born in the moth of June as well. They probably don’t think of the memories
that someone else had with it. If they think it might have been a mother’s
present to her youngest daughter, the only daughter that shared her birthday
month.
I wonder
what my brother and his girlfriend spent that $50 or $100 on, and if it was
worth it. Do they even think about that money or that rings two years later?
Did they even think about the emotions connected to it? I hope that it served
them well.
For them,
it was only worth the amount of money they could get for it. For me, it was
priceless, something I would give my lung to have on my finger just one more
time.
