A ring for remembrance

The summer I was 14, I attended classes at the University of Warwick, a “new university,” in Coventry, England.  Over the course of eight weeks, besides attending classes (history, theatre, some others I no longer can list) and outings to Stratford and some mines, we visited the Wedgwood provenders and I bought my mother a ring: a blue disc on which sits a white shepherd.  My mother had always wanted to travel overseas and never did; by then she was in mher mid-50’s and assumed she never would.  The ring was one of the more thoughtful gifts I ever gave her.

A few, very few, years later, she and I took our last vacation together, late in the summer and a stormy week, on Nantucket.  There I purchased a ring for myself, a small black enamled one with a few filigris flowers winding round.  Over the years, I’ve worn it off and on, although I rarely wear jewelry except for “toy” earrings.

When we visited the Portrait Gallery on Thursday, I became possessed with affection for a Paula Bolton ring I saw in its gift shop.  We leave Edinburgh now in only an hour or so and there hasn’t been time–from their opening hour of 10–for me to dash back there to get it.  But I could get to the National Galleries on Princes Street, and did, and now have that ring’s cousin, a kind of small silver crown with gold twists of wire and a tiny speck of ruby.

A ring for remembering this trip and this visit as a mother myself.


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