The Ring

“I specifically told you not to play with that ring!” It was true but I suppose that was partially what had made the ring so appealing-that mixed with the sheer excitement I felt when playing with my mothers shoes, clothing and jewelry. The ring by those standards became almost impossible to resist. At eight I longed to be like my mom, to have the same sophistication as an adult. I longed to be responsible enough to borrow the ring from inside the dark wood jewelry box with the plush red interior lined with gold leaves. “And what do you go and do? You steal it and you lose it, I can’t believe you.” “I’m sorry,” I mumble, repeat, over and over again frantically trying to make my mom forgive me. It doesn’t work, what else can I say though? “I’m sorry I didn’t think I would lose it, I just wanted to wear it!” Then the damn breaks and a waterfall of tears slide down from my face pooling below my feet. My mouth tastes salty-like I’m drinking water from the ocean but it’s only from the tears. I felt so small in that moment like an ant-small fragile and easily crushed. It began to feel like the world was caving in around me. At eight there was nothing I hated more than disappointing my mother- I looked up to her in every way possible-aspired to one day be just like her and I had disappointed her in an unimaginable way. “That was my mother’s wedding ring” “I know and I’m so sorry I just wanted to play with it.” And that was my mistake out of all the rings I could have plucked from her jewelry box I chose my Oma’s wedding ring. A simple small gold band-broken from when they had cut it off my mother’s finger when she was in labor with me. She certainly had prettier rings but this one was special-I suppose that’s why I wanted to wear it-to hold on to a piece of my Oma who died when I was three. Truthfully, though I longed to be mature enough, responsible enough to play with the ring. But, at eight I had no concept of my tiny hands being much smaller than my mothers. I didn’t pause long enough to think that one swift swing of my hand would cause the ring to fly off into the lush green grass, leaving it lost forever to me and to my mother.

“Sorry doesn’t make it okay. I told you to leave the ring alone and you lost it.” Not seconds after it fell did my friends and I frantically fall to our knees to search for it, but it was gone. My dad couldn’t find it either. When I had failed to find it I ran to him hoping, with the naivety only child posses, that his expert ability at finding lost things would recover the ring. But his super power fell short. “Your mother’s going to kill you, she told you not to take the ring and you lost it” The full weight of the situation took hold as I looked up at my dad’s somber face. I felt sick a somersaults of emotions tumbling around inside my tiny body.

The weight of the situation-hung heavy on my heart again as I looked at my mothers disappointed and utterly heart broken face. I don’t remember yet I’m sure she cried over the loss of the ring. I’m sure she cried over the loss of a piece of her mother that her own daughter had carelessly taken from her. I feared that what I had done was so unforgivinable that I would lose her trust forever. “I never fully forgave you for that,” she admitted to me years later. “I know you haven’t”

And how could she? I didn’t tell her that I hadn’t forgiven myself either. She didn’t hold it over my head or stop loving me. The world continued to spin on its access, and truthfully, she did forgive me. But sometimes as I walk down the familiar grey sidewalks of my childhood home I pause and stop three houses down from the corner. I stop and stare at the now brown, dried up grass where my Oma’s ring fell. I wonder briefly if maybe it’s still there but I know it’s not. I searched for it too many times before. It was gone “I still can’t believe you lost my mother’s ring.” “I’m sorry.”

Something I Forgot

I can’t remember all the words to the German game my Oma used to play with me. I can’t actually spell the words correctly either but, for the record I never I could. I can’t remember past the first verse “Huppa, Hupps Ryda, Clemmin schnoppin, scynider” which was sung cheerfully as she bounced me on her legs-I was tiny and giggly and I loved that song. I can’t remember her voice anymore either. I can’t remember the way she smelled-which I’m sure was of roladen, pierogi and a culmination of common spices used in German food. I can’t remember many things about her anymore. I was only three when she died from a stroke but her voice was lost long before then. When my mom and I would visit her-we would pack a picnic lunch-always with strawberries, she would pull me in a red wagon to the nursing home-the name is also lost to me.

I can’t remember what my mom would say to her but I suppose I hardly listened, it was to hard for me to understand what was going-to hard to deal with at three. I wouldn’t talk to her much instead just play with the teddy bears on her windowsill-gifts from relatives and friends. The teddy bear rainbow-who was my favorite eventually became mine when she passed away. I like to think that she was content to watch me play- young and so full of life when she was on her last breath. I like to tell myself that even though I said little my presence, my joy, and my naivety kept her happy and content.

I can’t remember where I put the Eulogy and the program from her funeral. My mom used to keep them in a cabinet that was easily reachable and I used to borrow them sometimes to feel closer to her because she so often felt so far away. I can’t remember the words I spoke to my mom when we received the call that she passed. Words that eventually were recited at her funeral because how could a mere three year old be so wise compassionate and lyrical when she spoke. Yet, I spoke them and my mother if only for a moment cried tears of joy instead of sadness. I can’t remember all the words just my mom perched on our windowsill the spasms of her body and volcanic sound of her sobs-the feeling of wanting to make her smile. Yet. I can’t remember the poem, the plane ride, the visit to New York or even the funeral itself- just my mom’s volcanic sobs-her voice frantically telling my dad to write my words down. Yet, only one phrase remains to me “she’s in the sun and your heart”. I can’t remember anything else about her all I have are a few words and phrases-meshed with worn video tapes scattered around the house and vague memories of her funeral-mostly to faded to decipher. I can’t remember most of her and I lost one of the few things I had to hold onto her.