The ruby ring.

Once when I was a little girl, I tried on my nanny's ruby ring. I had chubby fingers, even then, and the ring became stuck on my finger. We tried soap, butter, everything. Nothing worked. We eventually resorted to going to the emergency room at the hospital, and having the ring cut off. My nanny later had it repaired at the jewelers.

This became yet another chapter in the family legend of how I was someday to inherit the ring. The story starts at the time of my birth, when apparently my maternal grandmother, "Nanny", we would later refer to her as, took one look at me, and stated, "With all that dark hair, and those dark eyes, red will be her most flattering colour. I will leave her my ruby ring in my will. The one your father gave me, to serve as a wedding ring, during the war."

Nanny had left Belgium, her country, and fled to England. She had taken a job in a fish and chip shop, and there she met my grandfather, a Canadian soldier. They soon married, and after the war, returned to Canada together.

My Nanny became the most significant figure in my life as a child, as both my parents worked. She was the one who was always there for my sister and I.

Through the years, I was reminded many times of the ring, which would some day be mine. To me, it came to symbolize my bond with my maternal grandmother, and my place within my own family. I would wear the ring with pride, I told myself, and tell all those who commented on it about it's history. The idea of wearing the ring appealed to me very much.

It is many years later now, Nanny is very ill, and I find myself wishing that the transfer of the ring could be indefinitely postponed.