belonging

i found this old photograph while searching for my birth certificate. (they won't let me leave the country without proof that i really was born) thats my cute little grandmother on the right next to my pa. and the lady in red? my lovely mama. (funny i think i have that same sweater in blue & its not vintage)
i don't remember much about my grandmother. she passed when i was 3. my parents tell of how i decided i would follow suit after her funeral. laid myself in one of her old trunks and said good bye to them. they were, of course, horrified at the thought. but i loved her and was convinced that once that trunk lid closed i'd be with her again. she loved me. i've heard other stories, but even if all i had was the trunk story i'd know it. i'd know it fully.

i went to a wedding weekend before last & there was something said about rings being a sign of ownership. it made me happy.

you see, there's this ring i wear. it was hers. and in all the world there is no material thing that means more to me. (i know, i know - insert lecture about storing up treasure in heaven and not here. blah blah.) and here's why, my father was adopted. that never meant much to me, good or bad, until that wedding day. i think how my grandparents must have looked at him and decided life would be unbearable without him. they chose him. and by that, they chose me. they own me. (no. not like a slave. ha!) i belong.
so i'll wear it til it doesn't fit my old swollen hands ( & then i'll slip it on a chain and wear it 'round my neck) i'll wear it when it doesn't match. i'll wear it when i'm angry. i'll wear it when i feel like i haven't got a friend in the world. i'll wear it and know that she loved me and that i belong.

oh, and i'll wear through all the happy moments too (in case you wondered :)

-r