Remember that classic Ashlee Simpson (that’s right, I said CLASSIC ASHLEE SIMPSON SONG) “Pieces of me?” “All the pieces, pieces, pieces of me.” I’m missing a piece of me today, and I feel really weird about it.
When my grandma on my mom’s side died, my aunt pulled out her jewelry box and we all took a few pieces to remember her by. I chose several baby rings. I don’t know if they’re really from when she was a baby, because they fit my middle finger perfectly, but that’s what my aunt called them. Maybe my five-foot-nothing grandma was a humongous baby with extra-plump digits? or maybe I have bird-like finger bones? I’d like to think it’s a little of both.
I like the rings because they’re simple. Delicate yet plain gold bands. Each no wider than a centimeter, smooth and rounded. Two I keep on a gold chain that I wear under my clothes when I feel I need extra armor for the day. And one I wear every day on my left hand’s middle finger. On Saturday, for the first time in a long time, I slipped that ring off my finger. I was going to an event and thought it stood out against the rest of my chosen silver jewelry.
The ring remained behind, stowed away in a bag I left at the friend’s home where I got ready. I’ll probably see her sometime this week, but I realized last night and today on my run, how much I check in with it during the day, pulling my thumb onto the pad of my open palm and running it across the metal.
It struck me that maybe it’s not such a good idea to have a physical talisman that ties you to your family. If I miss them, I should just call them. Or, if I can’t call them, then think nice things about them. But there’s something very grounding about being able to wear something - to feel something - that says “I am loved through generations.”
7 notes
-
jackcheng liked this
-
nickdivers said:
nice writing, mk.
-
nickdivers liked this
-
jacob liked this
-
megankcollins posted this
