Helen

My engagement and wedding rings (photo courtesy of katiegardnerphoto.com).

When I was a little girl, my grandmother used to let me try on her wedding ring.

I'd slip it on, fan out my nail-bitten fingers, hold my hand out at arm's length. One day, Grandma would say, she'd give the ring to me. Which is when I'd promptly take it off and drop it into her palm, hating to think of when or why that day would come.

When Tony and I decided to get married, I asked my dad - and my aunt and cousin - for Grandma's ring. It was tucked away in his attic since her death several years ago.

It was pretty dingy when it arrived by FedEx. Yet after a visit to the jeweler for cleaning, it looked brand new. I gasped when Tony opened the box, where it sat snug next to my engagement ring, which we rebuilt to sit flush with the band.

Now when I look down at my fingers typing, I see her ring, and almost her hands. But though I long ago stopped biting my nails and now paint them a shade similar to her favorite, my hands aren't nearly as lovely.

The other day, a story I wrote a few years ago about my grandma appeared here at The Women's Colony. It was perfect timing.

My great aunt Ryann and her sister Helen, my grandmother. She's wearing the ring.