It lived many lives.  At the jewelry store, my grandfather picked it out for my grandmother (she was dating someone else when they met, but Pop-Pop stole her away).  In 1943 they married.  In Brooklyn the family flourished as four completely different children filled their adult lives along with law and teaching, alumni sports, and eventually grandchildren.  Their love story slowed, but did not end, in 1984 when pancreatic cancer quickly claimed my grandmother.  Claire.  From 1984 to 2004, Pop-Pop stayed in the house alone, heartbroken, still dusting notes tucked in the sides of mirrors.  “My Dear Claire,” they all began, and “XOXOXO” they all ended.

In 2001, my cousin Chris used the ring to promise a lifetime of love and family to his girlfriend.  It was reborn in the personalization: “To Sarah, Love Chris 2001.”  Their wedding was beautiful; their marriage was not.  She reluctantly parted with the ring after the separation.  Aunt Mary, Chris’s mother and Grandma and Pop-Pop’s only daughter, became the ring-guarder once again.  Her notions of her sons using it in the distance, it was tucked away for years in a keepsake box.

Pop-Pop started to deteriorate mentally in 2003.  A slow decline, I think his brain finally broke as his heart did so many years ago.  Everyone knows that Pop-Pop ended all phone calls by saying, “Kisses!” and smooching the receiver.  Towards the end, he would forget that he had already done this, so he would repeat the declaration and kissing sounds over and over again, and the caller would be showered with affection before hanging up.

When he died a little over a year ago, it was twenty minutes after I left the room.  He was a consummate gentleman until the sad end.  Returning the next day to support my father in managing the services and his grief, my aunt pulled me aside and placed the ring in my palm.  I could not find words.

The ring is not modern in style.  The center of the ring features a half-carat round-cut diamond.  There is a chip in the diamond; only my grandmother had the strength to damage the hardest natural substance known to humankind.  It is held in place by soft claws that reach over each of the four corners.  When viewed from the side, it reminds me of the Chrysler Building.  Extending out from the center are three diamond chips beaded into place on both sides.  It is a modest ring, but it has more character than the popular rings today.  That my grandfather chose this ring for her meant that he knew her.  He knew what she liked and didn’t like, and he sought to please her with both the proposal and his acute ability to pick out a ring that suited her perfectly.

And it was perfect.  Except it didn’t fit my finger.  And it still had the engraving of the wedding past.  I married my husband in 2004, so my ring finger was already adorned with a simple band and engagement ring.  Should I wear this new treasure around my neck?  Should I keep it in my jewelry box and save it for one of my children?  Should I take the existing diamonds out and fit them onto my ring?  None of these options seemed to honor the memory of the love that brought the ring into our family, so I brought it to the jeweler uptown with a new plan for an old ring.

My grandfather’s last words were “I love everyone.”  He professed this before he went silent.  His eyes were closed for days so he could not discern the depressed place he was living in, a pit stop before hospice.  “I love everyone,” he said, and I believe him.

I had the ring resized to fit my ring finger.  My wedding band is surrounded by promises of love, as I wear it between the ring my husband gave me and the ring my family gave me.  The engraving now reads, “Kisses.”  A bit ostentatious, I don’t mind the curious looks people give my now-heavier left hand.  It gives me a chance to tell them about my Grandma and Pop-Pop, their lives together, and his legacy of absolute affection.

“Shut up and write!”