Both my parents are gone now. My mother died a few months ago, and the ache in my heart is still raw. I haven’t gone through her belongings yet. There’s no rush, and it’s bound to be a stinging reminder she is no longer alive.

Today, when I opened my jewelry box, I spotted something unfamiliar — a velvet satchel. When I picked it up, I remembered I’d put it there for safe keeping after my mother was admitted to the hospital. The pouch contained my mother’s wedding ring. Her ring wasn’t ornate, but simple and refined, just as she had been all her life.

Holding my mother’s ring, I recalled her Friday night struggles to remove it before washing her hands for hamotzi. During this last year, my mother had become frailer, so I’d bring a basin and washing cup to her place at the table. On those evenings, she would turn her rings around and around; still, she was unable to remove them.

She’d shrug her shoulders, look up and smile at me in surrender. I noticed she’d gotten into the habit of putting her ring on the wrong finger, and her knuckle was a hump too big for the ring to glide over. That was my cue to put a dab of dish soap on her finger — it would loosen the ring. Eventually, we’d coax it over her joint and after washing, I made sure she put the ring back on her ring finger.

The ring in this velvet pouch belonged to my mother, and on some level, it felt as if the ring was my mother. As I held it in my hand, my sorrow grew heavier. To ease the burden of my grief, I tucked the ring back into my jewelry box.

Many years have passed since my bas mitzvah ring was stolen, but now I’ve found a replacement for it. When I feel ready, I will take my mother’s ring to the jeweler and have it sized to fit me. When I look at my finger I’ll  be reminded of my mother, the woman who made her 12-year-old daughter feel like she had the most exquisite ring in the world.

Now, she does again.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 764)