I wear two of my mother’s rings. When I look down at my hands, I recognize the rings as hers. One, a three stone sapphire ring that she received from my father. The other a replacement for her original wedding band, this one thicker and more ornate than the original plain silver band. Everyone recognizes the sapphire one as “hers”. She went no where without it, it was ever present. Not many, if any, remember the wedding band. Even my father denied its existence. “That’s not what we had at our wedding.” Perhaps not, but it is what she wore as her wedding band for as long as I could remember. Until their divorce, when I was 16, and then it was packed away with her original wedding set (band & solitaire diamond), in a small cardboard white ring box, the foam a little stretched from holding its spot for so long. On the outside of the box she wrote two dates. The date they got married, 10/3/1970; and the day their divorce was final, 9/15/1987. Like an epitaph on a gravestone.
I wear both rings now. They are my mother’s rings. They are not, however, my mother’s hands. My mother had long lean fingers. Pale, and slightly wrinkled. She wore her nails fairly long, priding in the strength of the nails themselves (she boasted that she could use her nails as screwdrivers without a chip or break). She had never had a professional manicure, she had told me once. But her nails were beautiful. Roundly sculpted, cuticles trim, thick and strong. My fingers are shorter. Stouter. My knuckles pink, in contrast to the sallow yellow tint to my skin. I inherited the wedding band sometime into my adulthood, as she had no use for it any longer. My fingers, however, were too short and stubby to get away with such a thick and bulky ring. Especially my ring finger, for which is fit. I could, however, get away with it on my middle finger. And so I had it slightly enlarged. And it stares at me, a reminder of my parents’ ill-fated marriage, but also of my mother’s undying devotion for my father. Even after their divorce.
The blue sapphire ring became mine upon her death. She wore it up until her last admission to the hospital. It is a beautiful ring. Three solid large sapphire blue gems on a silver twisted band. She was often complimented on it by friends and strangers alike. As am I when it became mine. When she was ill, and was in the hospital, I got to wear it for “safe keeping”. This was beyond bittersweet. I was always happy to give it back, and see it back on her hand once again. Until it was parked on my hand forevermore.
But I look at my hands. Her rings. My hands. My hands look nothing like hers. In fact, there isn’t much of me that looks like her. My mother’s side of the family, in general, and usually had very strong shared characteristics. All of the females shared a similar look. Same for the males. They didn’t necessarily look alike between the sexes, but all the girls looked related, and all the boys looked related. The look was a concoction of multiple Anglo-Saxon breeds. Irish. Welsh. English. Scottish. Rumors of American Indian. But that was the extent of it. Mousey brown hair. Sometimes with blonde highlights which usually got darker with age. Brown or blue eyes. Mediumly prominent cheekbones, pale ivory skin, some freckles. There was no denying relations. Period. And then there was me.
As far as denying relations, there was no denying I was my father’s child. Dark brown hair, like my father. Olive skin tone. Large almond brown eyes, thick lashes that didn’t quit, like my father. Short and stout in stature. The shortness a true genetic mix from my father’s side, the stout directly from my Grandmother. Cursed with an oily, acne prone complexion, dotted with deep dark brown moles, sometimes called “beauty marks” by the kind. I was Italian, through and through. No one would suspect only half. Destined, I was told, to be a little round old Italian lady. Pestered with nearsightedness. I wore glasses, like my father. If I had a moustache, it was said, I would be his twin. In family pictures, of just the Girls, I stood out. In a sea of white porcelain skinned WASPy types, I stood out as the Mediterranean odd-ball. I did, however, inherit, the great gift of an ample bosom, directly from my mother’s side of the family: her sisters, her mother, alike. But that ample bosom, on my stout frame – only easing my evolution to the old round Italian woman fate.
But as I am getting older, I see something else. Round shadows have emerged on the skin of my chest and shoulders. Sun spots. Sun Damage, the dermatologist calls it. (Nothing to be concerned about, she says) But I recognize those spots. Those freckles. I look down upon my skin, and I know these spots. I have seen these freckles over and over, throughout the years. They are my mother’s. And finally, I know I am my mother’s daughter. I can see it. Subtle light brown freckles dancing between the dark beauty marks and moles of my Italian heritage, reminding me of the amalgamation of nationalities beneath my skin. Alas, naked, I see my mother in me. And it is good.
No comments:
Post a Comment