THE RUBY RING

My mother, beautiful and dramatic,

Owned a small town jewelry shop

Catering mostly to women.

Each week she went into Manhattan,

Purchased gold and jewels; then

Skillfully sold her loyal customers

What they would want to buy

Before they knew they had to have it.

I grew up watching her care

For them, so on my seventh birthday,

I asked for a birthstone ring.

My Mother did not let me down. 

She gave me the most magnificent ruby ring,

Child sized, but with a diamond on each side.

I wore it, showed to anyone who’d look,

And I did not lose it.  It was

My Mother’s certification

Of my worth.

Many years later, with the ring

Still sitting in my jewelry box

I reminded her of it.

As matter-of-factly as

Telling me to turn off the TV, she said,

“Why I picked that up in Woolworth’s.”

My ruby ring, the one my Mother gave me,

Was only a five and dime legacy.

I never told my Mother

The way I felt.

If she had only said nothing,

Her silence would have been a gift.

She was probably right,

As a kid, I’d lose the ring before long,

But I didn’t lose it, I lost

Being her ruby.