Last Friday, I had a few errands and appointments I had to take care of. It was going to be the first day out of the house since the ice storm. Though there were still substantial amounts of ice and snow in yards, streets were traversable. I chose this sweater to wear:
My mother made it. The colors are purple, lime and white. Which led me into her jewelry box to stare at this ring:
Daddy made it for her because, from top to bottom, it holds Briton's, mine and Hannah's birthstones: opal, amethyst, pearl. A lovely idea for a Grandma, but a perplexing gift. Daddy was intensely superstitious, and one of the most serious jewel superstitions is that no one should wear opals unless they are their birthstone. Otherwise, they bring bad luck. Why he had the ring made for her, whose birthstone was aquamarine. . . It just had to be for the symbolism. I don't know if she ever wore it.
Friday morning, I decided to. The ring matched the sweater perfectly, and it was Valentine's Day. Briton and Hannah are my only two Valentines. And I hadn't worn an amethyst on my birthday.
That day, I fell on our icy sidewalk. I am still in stiff soreness, and the bruises (from head to thighs) are beginning to come in in all tints and tones of purple and green and milky yellow. Opalescent, one might say.
That day, as I was lying in a hot epsom salt bath to try to get ahead of the aches, the toilet made a very peculiar gulping, burping sound, and began to overflow. I am no speedster out of the tub anyway, so you can imagine how glacial were my tries to get out and to the toilet before the floor was flooded. I was late. And by the time I got everything mopped up, the bath was cold. And I was out of epsom salts.
Then, that was the night of the earthquake.
I will never wear that ring again.