The Gift

After high school, my mother moved to nearby Kokomo, Indiana. She lived in a boarding house and assembled roller skates at Kingston Products Corporation. She sent money to her farm family but put aside a small amount for herself. She planned to buy a luxury she read about. A gift for herself. The November 1929 issue of Harper’s Bazaar featured an article titled “Rings of Renown,” that showcased various rings, including some onyx and diamond pieces that captured the Art Deco spirit. It was expensive but it was the one gift she wanted. A black onyx ring with a diamond in the center.

She wore the ring on her left hand when she met my father. Within a year, he replaced her Art Deco ring with an engagement ring and a wedding band. Soon, I arrived.

As my childhood awareness grew, I watched Mommy take off and put on her rings. I watched her lotion her manicured hands, massage her fingers, and put on her rings. I wanted to be like Mommy. I wanted a ring, too!

For my fourth birthday, in 1940, she designed a ring for me using the diamond from her Art Deco ring. A yellow gold band with a pink gold heart inside a white gold heart. The diamond from her Art Deco onyx ring sparked in the center. I was thrilled and wore it on my left-hand ring finger.

My little brother joined our family in February 1941. I tried to be generous. The truth is, I did not like sharing my parents with him. Fate gave him some rough challenges. An adventurous toddler, he caught his right hand in a mangle ironer and had burns that required plastic surgery. Then our daddy died before he was three.

Our fighting got worse. When he had enough teeth, he became a biter. Our scuffles often involved him biting me. He bit my hand, my left hand. He bit my heart ring band into. I could no longer wear it. Mom put it in the top drawer of the chest of drawers in her bedroom. It stayed there until she died in 1965.

When my brother cleared out her house for sale, he found the ring and sent it to me. By then I was married and lived in Wappingers Falls, New York. I took the broken heart ring to a jeweler and had it repaired. I always wore it on the pinkie finger of my right hand. I developed the habit of touching my right thumb to my pinkie finger to feel the ring. I sent a loving thought to my mother. Her gifts to me. The sacrifices she made to keep us together after she was widowed at only age thirty-three. Her sustained love for me during my turbulent teen years.

Then one day my right thumb reached and found nothing. My heart ring was gone from my finger. I looked everywhere.

Now I imagine it in the belly of a fish swimming among tropical islands. In the sand at the bottom of the Mediterranean, in the beak of a Raven, in the eyes of the finder giving it to a loved one. I see the heart ring on my small hand. I see an Art Deco ring, a diamond surrounded by black onyx on my mother’s hand. I see it.