A Pinky Promise
I burst into tears when the jeweller handed me my late mother’s ring. When I brought it into the shop, it was dull and broken from years of wear. From years of daily abrasion. Stones loosen; settings weaken. Looking at it now, the star-split band is soldered, mended like a scar. Connection restored. Healed. Once three, now two, stones stay intact. Two grey-blue stone eyes like my mother's. Dad bought this friendship ring for Mum 45 years ago. A promise ring. The promise of things to come. When we were kids, my sister would admire Mum’s rings and wanted to wear them all the time. My childhood memories are connected to Mum wearing this particular ring. Calisthenics classes and concerts. Netball training. Birthday parties. Sleepovers. Cooking with spices. Sewing clothes and curtains. Shopping with our eyes first. Conversations at the kitchen table. Laughing at jumbled words and mixing up languages. Crying over bloodied knees and hurt feelings. I didn’t like wearing rings then, when I ...