Carrying Grandma in a ring

A few years ago I inherited my maternal grandmother's engagement ring. It's a beautiful brilliant cut diamond with two diamond chips on either side, one baguette, one a simple square all set in platinum on a white gold ring. My grandparents made a special trip to the diamond district in NYC in September of 1941 to purchase the ring. It was one of the earlier brilliant cuts, cut by hand and it fluoresces blue, a dark cobalt blue.

I started wearing the ring as soon as I got it ~ why should I wait for some guy to give me permission to wear my grandmother's ring? Of course, I wear it on my right hand and I've had it appraised and while it fit me perfectly when I first got it (which just seemed so right) I had to get it resized a whole size down after my year of not eating.

But back to the power of the ring. I'm not talking about a forged-in-Mount-Doom sort of power, just an odd sort of connection to my grandmother, a woman who has probably had a greater influence on me than any other single person. She died just before I turned 20, but that has not changed the course I followed in the last 15 years. Sometimes I feel I need to play her role in family dynamics and sometimes I realize I just naturally am.

There are other times however, when the ring has a mind, a voice of its own. It's a conservative voice much older than my 35 years or a concern for complete strangers that only a mother of four and an ex-police officer could have. It's a voice of confidence in me that used to come in the form of carefully written notes and long distance phone calls. It's not like internalizing your mother, when you're in the dressing room of a clothing store and you hear a voice ask if you're old enough to wear white. Trust me, I have that too.

This is different. Today it asked for something. I was in a shop run by hospital volunteers that raises money for indigent patient care and there was some jewelry made by a Mexican woman. One of the pieces featured an antique religious medal, like the ones my grandmother used to pin to the coats of her children and even me and my sister. The would include various saints to watch over children and to keep us safe and well. I keep several in a dish with a set of rosary beads that my mother bought for me in Rome and had blessed by the Pope. (John Paul, of course) This necklace features a medal of Mary, a favorite of both my grandmother's and mine. I know it sounds like some crazy excuse ~ my dead grandmother told me to buy it. But, she wanted me to have it ~ she spoke to me through it. Okay, so now I sound certifiable.

Let me put it this way. I had this horrific week at work and my grandmother saw this way, apparently, to show support. A way to remind me that she was there. I walked into this store completely by chance, had never been there before, didn't plan to go there. But there was this antique medal of Mary ~ just like my grandmother Mary ~ just when I needed another hand on my shoulder. I could always count on her to come through for me. There's no such thing as coincidences. And people don't just leave you when they die. Thanks, Grandma, I needed this today.