Consigning Mother’s Ring

— Barbara Saxton

It shouldn’t have been willed to me. I’m not
an emerald and baguette diamond girl;
I’m set in steel, not platinum.

Technically a dinner ring, we knew it
as a form of circular apology
for cocktail hour abuse; payment in advance
for dessert wines served
with purple bruises.

For twenty-three long years,
I kept it tucked away in an emotionally
distant drawer.

But my sister’s house needs a new roof,
and something good should finally come
of all that ostentatious glinting.

Before I left the jewelry store, I kissed the gems
that once adorned a hand now far beyond
her daughter’s loving grasp.

One thought on “Consigning Mother’s Ring

  1. Hard to take for granted the poem and poet are separate sometimes, but even so……..this is a marvelous poignant/hard heart recall of a calamitous family, rescued at last with enduring respect. I like it very much. MK

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