My Mother has been dead for ten years now, and I don’t hear from her much.

But this summer she spoke up.

Decades ago when Mother and Daddy divorced she gave me her rings with the understanding that I would eventually pass them on to the two daughters of my sister, who died in 1996.

I put the wedding ring away and wore the engagement ring on my right pinky finger for more than thirty years. Four years ago, I visited the younger daughter and gave her the wedding ring. I knew I needed to get the other ring to the older daughter, but the time never seemed right.
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This summer Mother spoke up: “It’s time,” she said.

So when I visited the older daughter, I took her grandmother’s ring off my finger and presented it to her. She was thrilled! As I told her the story of the ring I watched her slip the ring on… her right pinky finger.

She held out her hand and I saw: my Mother’s hand, my sister’s hand, and my own hand all imprinted on her hand.

The stories of our ancestors live on through our voices and in our bodies.