This Christmas was unlike Christmases of the past. There would be no celebration this year with siblings, nieces, and nephews. No overflowing stockings; no seven fishes; no trays of Mom’s cookies. At least not for me and my extended family.
Instead, Mom and I would celebrate together, just the two of us in the home she shared with my Dad before he died nearly five years ago. We would meet on a Wednesday as we have done weekly for more than two years. We would sit at her kitchen table and have lunch. She would tell me stories of her childhood, of the early days with my Dad. I would have coffee; she would have tea.
This Christmas, it was I who filled my car with gifts from those who were unable to come to Mom’s due to health concerns with COVID-19. It was I who played gift-giver, handing her one package after another with an explanation of its giver.
We listened to Johnny Mathis Christmas songs on her new CD player. We reminisced about my grandmother and her husband, Allie, who would pile gifts into their 1970s gold Gran Torino and drive the two hours down the New Jersey Turnpike to spend Christmas with us when we were young. To my siblings and me, she was our Santa.
In those days my mother would tell us that we wouldn’t be getting a lot for Christmas because things were tight. And, yet, we always had enough—in fact, more than we could ask for.
When Mom handed me my Christmas bag this year, I already knew what was inside. I had picked out a special pair of ergonomic gardening scissors with a shiny white handle; I pretended to be surprised as I unwrapped it. In the bag there was also a card with cash so I could pick out another gift later on. I returned the scissors and card to the bag when she said, “There’s something else in there.”
I looked up. “There is?”
I reached past the tissue paper and crumpled wrapping to the bottom of the bag where I found a small nondescript box.
“What is this?” I asked.
Mom sat quietly, smiling. I unsnapped the box and lifted the lid.
Inside, was a silver ring. It was art-deco-inspired with geometric settings of triangles surrounding an edged oval in the center. There were diamonds inlaid in each of the shapes.
“Grandma’s ring!” I exclaimed.
Across the kitchen table, I looked at Mom, and she at me. My eyes returned to the ring as I held it up, imagining it on my Grandmother’s finger. In that moment I heard her raucous laughter, saw her red hair, bright lipstick and blushed cheeks. I felt the excitement of a little girl sitting around the family table playing penny poker in our kitchen. It was always a holiday when Grandma came to visit.
Mom shared that her mother had the ring made from my Great Grandpa Tony’s diamond tie clip. Mom remembers her grandfather as a man who always wore a suit. I remember him as one with a ruddy complexion, bulbous nose, deep, gentle voice, and thick white wavy hair.
Grandma originally had the clip attached to a ring she wore until the diamonds began to loosen and she consulted a jeweler to obtain one with proper settings. I wonder how she felt as she chose the style. I wonder what she remembered about her father as she considered the gift he had left for her.
I slipped the ring onto my finger. I held it in place to keep it from sliding and tried to see it as mine, though it still looked like hers. Maybe it belongs to both of us now. Maybe to all three of us, as it was my mother who passed it on to me. And, one day, I will pass it on to my daughter.
I showed it to my grandson and told him the ring had belonged to his Great Great Grandma Peggy. Sometimes he adds an extra “Great” when saying her name. That would certainly be apropos.
The ring was fitted to my smaller finger. I wear it remembering what came before and what is still to come. And, I am thankful for a legacy of love captured in this shining gift.