Years ago,
my grandmother gave me
her mother’s wedding ring.
Occasionally, I try it on,
holding out my hand
to see how the wide gold band
shines in the light,
as my great-grandmother might have done
in November 1889
when it was slipped on her finger
to linger for fifty years
until she died.
Now while the wedding ring is mine,
I mostly hide it away,
keeping it safe
till the day I pass it down
to my daughter’s hand.