Today I had to sell my Grandmother’s wedding ring. It was solid and golden and flawless even after almost 130 continuous years of wear (between her and my Grandfather’s mother and her mother before her where the ring originated somewhere across the Atlantic, most likely in Sweden). When my husband and I got married we did a small thing at a court house. We never bought rings because I found out I was pregnant almost immediately afterwards and our money had better uses. On Yule when I went home to visit my Grandmother she pulled me aside and told me it bothered her that I didn’t have a ring and gave me the thing off of her own hand. The metal never cooled as it passed from her to me. It was alive with her spirit and good will and the energy of partnership.
The ring isn’t my memories of my Grandmother. The ring is nothing but a cool piece of metal, but as long as it was warm it reminded me of her touch. I don’t have a single memory of her before she passed it to me without it on her hand.
The ring wasn’t my Grandmother, and needs must, but it still burns. I feel like I’ve sold out a piece of my ancestry, something that should have stayed in my clan and been passed from my warm hand to my daughter. I feel like I’ve shattered something special and beautiful even though I’m using the money to continue our lives. Without it we would be screwed. I know this. I can’t make it make sense to my heart, however.
I sold the ring to an estate jewelry store that likes to collect stories, and so I told them mine and the assistant smiled and wrote it down, so maybe even if I never see the ring again, and I probably won’t, someone will at least remember our family name and where it came from.
Hail Loki, who holds my hand when life sucks and gives me strength to do the things I need to do! Even the shitty things.