I don’t wear Grandma’s ring all the time; I don’t want to lose it or subject it to harsh chemicals – as if I would ever clean. But there are times when I want to feel my grandma with me, because it is comforting and because when I am wearing her ring, I feel like I should try a little harder to be a decent person.

Of course, you know the ring is the turquoise thing and the white spots on my hand are vitiligo. The ring looks the same, summer or winter, but my hand come July will appear to be an abstract impression of a Guernsey cow.

Cow picture from HERE.

I wore it yesterday because I had to meet with this – aw, don’t mince words, AmeliaJake, – this BIMBO and I wanted to keep my sarcastic tendencies in check. Well, I got through that, mainly by saying only two sentences and then went about everything else.

About an hour ago, I looked down and it was gone – the ring, that is. Oh, my gosh, the PANIC. Finally, I sat down and thought, “Now, Grandma, please help me find it.” I thought it through and came up with a memory of doing something messy and putting it in a zippered free gift Estee Lauder pouch – circular, purple and pink since I’m being detailed in this recounting of my hyperventilating “the sky has fallen” mood – and then stashing it in the top drawer of a china cabinet.

There is a picture somewhere of me and Grandma standing on the front yard just before going to Sunday School. She is holding my hand: I am four or five: the ring is visible on her hand. I’m a bit older now, but I can still feel that morning air and the softness of her hand. I think I can also remember not being that enthusiastic about going to Sunday School.

Memories are such wonderful things. You can compress them in your mind and then take them out and wrap them around you like a comforting blanket and they can seem as if the moment is still here.