This is Gunga’s ring. It goes to you when I die.
It is something my mother said to me at least a thousand times over the course of her life, each time pointing to the antique diamond ring she wore on her right hand, a ring that had belonged to her grandmother, a ring Mom wore every day.
I know, Mom, I know I said a thousand times in return, rolling my eyes at her need to reiterate.
I know.
And here I am now, eight months after that cold winter day we laid my mother to rest. It has taken some time—I know it always does—to address the endless details in the settling of her affairs. Thanks to my devoted brother, William, Mom’s every request is being honored. As of Thursday night, Gunga’s ring is on my right hand.
I am surprised at the weight of this transfer of ring from Gunga to La-La to Mom to me. It carries with it a strange mix of emotions, from comfort and connection to deep deep sadness—a mixed bag I shared with my husband this afternoon as we took a quiet moment to talk about the week’s events. He listened generously, but in the mere telling of the story I realized something of significance: The grief is intensely private when a daughter loses her mother.
Nevertheless, a few minutes later he walked through the living room and stopped to put his arms around me.
It makes it so real that she is gone I said, my eyes filling with tears. It makes me so sad.
He looked at me and smiled.
Well, at least she didn’t have to suffer through that awful football game last night*, he said.
I couldn’t help but laugh. Mom and Dad were there for every game during my four years at Clemson, a magical time capped off with a national championship my senior year. How we hoped for a repeat this year, with the beautiful and unlikely parallel 31 years later for Eliza, now in her junior year at Clemson—my daughter, Mom’s granddaughter, La-La’s great-granddaughter, Gunga’s great-great-granddaughter.
And then I laughed again, knowing exactly how likely it is that the next time I see my sweet girl, I will point to my right hand and say emphatically This is Gunga’s ring. It goes ….
Mom and me, 1995
*Florida State over my beloved Clemson Tigers 51-14.
Remind me to show you the ring that I wear on my right hand every day. It was my Granny’s (my mother’s mother) engagement ring. She and I had a very, very special bond. About 6 months after Granny died, my aunt came to visit and gave it to me. She said, “This was always supposed to be yours one day, but I don’t want you to have to wait a lifetime to enjoy it. And when the time comes for you to pass it on, you’ll know.”
We are the keepers of those special pieces for the next generation…matters not their monetary value…the sentimental value is priceless.
Great post!
You are so right, Bonnie. They offer such a powerful connection. From one, to the next, to the next.
Me too…I can identify with all that pain…love you.
I know–and so does Leslie–that you are speaking of the game as well as the personal sadness! Thank you, my sweet friend.
In spite of the reality of that last line, this might be my favorite “Grace” ever.
Thank you, Leslie. Too much pain and sadness for one weekend!