My mother’s ring. It has sat in my jewelry box for the last few years. It’s still broken. I had it repaired when it was given to me eleven years ago. However, it could not be fixed completely. Symbolically, just like my mother. I spent many years as a spectator to my mother’s addiction. Watching as it changed her from a woman I knew and trusted, to a complete stranger. This ring went along for the ride with us. This small piece of metal holds many secrets and heartache.
Although it’s repaired enough I can wear it, a closer look will show that just a small snag can finish it. I spent many years in that same state emotionally. I may never have it repaired. This metal band was the last thing between us. The last physical reminder I have of the woman I once knew. I find comfort knowing she wore it at both her best and worst. When I wear her ring, it’s honoring her.
This ring has walked with me down the aisle to my husband and into a new life. This ring was on my hand while giving birth to my last two children. I will always wear it on her birthday and for any big life events. I wore it to my baby sister’s graduation. It shocked me when she handed me her senior rose, but this ring was on the hand that received it.
Some people notice it, and will stop me to give a compliment. I smile and thank them. Smiling inwardly to myself because I know that was you Mom. I know that was your way of letting me know you are finally whole again. But in some ways, we will always remain beautifully broken. Just like your ring.