The Ring by Jo-Ann Newton

I hunt frantically through the dusty box,
a mausoleum for once shiny things.

I find it in a tangle of broken glamour;
tarnished, tawdry.
In my open hand, the ring;
a whispered ghost of gold and smoky quartz.

Throw it away
he says.
I shake my head.
It was a present from my mother.

I feel the salt scrape my throat
as I remember what it cost.

A winter wearing open-toed shoes.
Worry over rent and arthritic bones.
Choking back pride;
selling her wedding ring
to bring me this emblem
of unconditional love.

I hold it to my lips.
It is priceless.


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