Inside Gigi's World

The Prompt of the Day

What’s the oldest things you’re wearing today?

My mother had always wanted a Mother’s ring—the kind of ring that moms wear with their offspring’s birthstones, acting as a badge of the sacrifice they have made to bring human life into this shady, shady world. She talked about it often, just how very much she wanted one of those rings. Anytime a holiday or birthday or gift giving occasion would rear its head, we were remind just how much she wanted one.

When I was about eleven, my brother—who was 21— had just come home from the service. He started working a full-time job and moved into an apartment just a few buildings up from the one me and my parents lived in. He decided we were going to get our mom one of those rings. I couldn’t tell you why we were buying her this ring, some kind of gift-giving holiday if I had to take a guess but I couldn’t tell you which one—I guess that doesn’t matter anymore. What does matter is my brother decided and so that’s what we were going to do.

Here was the catch: if I wanted to put my name on the gift—and boy did I—my brother said I had to contribute to the cost of it. So I babysat and babysat some more so I could give my brother money to contribute to this gift. How much money, I no longer remember. I don’t remember where we bought it from. Nor do I remember how much it cost. But one day he showed up with that ring and we gifted it to her.

It was two thin, twisted, gold bands that came together in the back to form one band with one amethyst, one peridot and one light blue topaz stone in the center. I don’t know who was more proud, me and my brothers for giving it to her or my mother wearing it. She showed everyone she could, “Look at what my children bought me!”

I’m not sure how long she had it for—but it wasn’t very long—until the amethyst stone fell out and needed to be replaced so she brought it to the local jewelry store to have it fixed and that was where it stayed. She wanted to pick it up but she could never afford to pick it up after its repairs, there was just never enough money. And according to the claim ticket that the jeweler gave my mother, after 60 days the item was considered abandoned property and it was theirs to sell.

By this time my mother’s drug addiction and alcoholism spiraled even more. At this point what she could sell off to help support her habit, she began doing.

At about 13 I began working my first full-time, summer job. I got my first paycheck and went to the local jewelry store to treat myself to a nice piece of jewelry that wasn’t purchased from a store like Claire’s.

When I walked in, I was greeted by the same red carpet, squeaky floor, and the same lady behind the counter that had always been there, we spoke about my mother’s ring while I tried on various pieces of jewelry. I told her it had been a few years since we had dropped off the ring. She was extraordinarily kind and after I finished the story she said, “Wait here for a second. Let me go into the back to check something.” She reemerged with a little manila envelope in her hand, when she got to the counter where I was standing, she poured the contents it contained in her hand.

“Is this your mother’s ring?”

It was! I was so incredibly excited that she had it still. She told me how it fell behind something in the vault so they never ended up putting it on the floor to sell. She was so happy that I was there and willing to pay for the ring that she only charged me $50.00. I couldn’t wait to go home and give it to her.

Something stopped me from giving it back to her. I couldn’t tell you why. At first I wanted to save it as a grand gesture and surprise her when she least expected it. But she just got worse and worse so I hide it amongst my jewelry and never said another word to her about it. She already thought it was gone so I felt less guilty about keeping it from her. I couldn’t wear it because if I did, she’d see it and she’d know. So I kept it hidden, tucked away in a place I’d hope she’d never find it.

I had completely forgotten about it. Out of sight, out of mind.

Then she died last June. There was not much left of her; some pictures, her passport, some cards and letters. But everything else was gone. She had sold, stolen and pawned anything she could while in the midst of her drug addiction. Everything of hers that I have fits in a little card box—minus her high school yearbooks—and her wedding band that is still covered in hospital tape with pieces of her skin. I have not brought myself to wash it and it is much too small to wear it.

This is all I have left of her.

Or so I thought…

Until a few months after she passed, while digging around in my jewelry box, there sat her mother’s ring, waiting for me to put it on my finger.

And so I do. I wear it everyday. A reminder of times when they didn’t feel so hopeless. A happy memory even if it is stained marginally but not some great stuff. Something she was so proud to own, now sits on my ring finger. It hurts to wear it but it also makes me feel closer to her in some kind of weird, cosmic way.

The oldest thing that I am wearing is my mom’s mother ring. Roughly 30 years young and getting the new lease on life that it most definitely deserves.