I have a gorgeous turquoise ring my mother gave me. Her mother gave it to her. She used to wear it almost every Sunday. Every time I look at my right hand, I see her hand wearing the familiar ring. I remember sitting in church next to her on most Sundays, holding her always warm, soft hands. I would pet the back of her hand, marveling about how smooth her skin was. I liked the way I could push wrinkles across her hand and smooth them back out.
Now that my hands are nearly 40, and my skin is now smooth and getting thinner, my hands feel and look exactly like hers did back then. I often sit alone with my thoughts pushing wrinkles across the back of my hand, like I used to in church with mom. In a very real way I feel like I am right back there with her, leaning against her arm and holding her hand.
It is a gift that her ring and my own hands connect me to her so easily. Today I am aware, though, I need to do more than imagine holding her hand. Its coming on past the time for a sojourn to Texas so I can hold her hand, live and in person. Soon.