Band of Gold

The song stopped me right in my tracks. Or well, it stopped my shoes anyway. I walked right out of them. It happens sometimes.

It strikes me as odd that I never hear either of these songs part way through. I always always always hear them right from the beginning. The violins or the I Need A Sign. It can't be a coincidence.

And I feel compelled to listen to the entire song. Even if it means being late for work, or my daughter grousing that her hair still needs to be braided, or delaying reprimanding my son for playing that stupid video game about bullies before he is dressed and ready for school. I found something to do that would keep me in my room for the rest of the song. Donned the pearls, made the bed, and then went back to the jewelry box. I removed the chunky ring I'd placed on my middle finger and reached for the gold signet ring. Because it was my Dad's.

It is a gold ring that once had my Dad's initials engraved in it...or may have. Time and wear have rubbed the surface nearly smooth and the delicate scrolling is barely visible. I found it in Dad's jewelry box after he died. Not that he wore a lot of jewelry, he was a watch-and-single-ring man. (My mom tried to get him to wear a gold Italian horn once with an open collar shirt. And Earth Shoes. He probably would have worn a skirt first. I have the horn in my jewelry box, too.) Let's just say it was a box intended for jewelry but actually housed a lot more than that.

Letters from friends who had died long ago. Keepsakes from a job he loved for over 30 years. Goofy stuff we'd made for him in school or Brownies or camp. And this ring. I have no idea who it belonged to. I'd never seen Dad wear it. It could have been his dad's, but he had been estranged from the family long before he died. His beloved grandfather died young too. But my Dad was a Junior so if they are his grandfather's initials they may not be Dad's initials. It could have been his brother's ring. He died when I was very young, but I would think that one of his 5 kids would have gotten that ring. I can't be sure who it belonged to first or even if it belonged to anyone before Dad. I've always just guessed. My Dad has but one living sibling and she hasn't a clue about its story and neither does my mother. I have no idea whose initials really were engraved on the top. So the ring is a puzzlement.

But it makes me feel like I am carrying some part of him with me. Because it was his. In some way. It was special enough to be in The Box. Like some kind of worry stone, I love to rub the smooth surface of the ring's face (which does not help the legibility of the engraving problem, by the way) And it fits so perfectly...on my right thumb.

I have a strong sense that things carry some essence of their owners. That some part of them transfers to the things they owned and loved, and by keeping the things near you, you carry them with you. I always reach for a cameo ring that belonged to my mother and grandmother when I am interviewing for a job. What could be bad about having the energy of two tough, smart, resourceful ladies with you on a job interview?

And I always feel like thrift shops and estate sales have such lively memories bouncing around in them. From the prior owners. Of all the things. Like this desk where I am writing. I got it at an estate sale. It is ornate and interesting with lots of little drawers and compartments and a pretty little skeleton key (that I have already locked inside it - twice) and I wonder if years ago, someone like me sat at this desk, with the writing surface pulled down, writing a letter, long hand, on pretty perfumed paper, to her husband who was away in the service. Whatever happened to her? Or to him?

With the song on the radio, I am sure that Dad is near, and wanting to hold him nearer, I place the ring on my thumb, listen to the morning DJ voice over the last remaining strains of Calling All Angels and head back to my impatient daughter and her awaiting head of hair.