When I was a little boy, I stole a ring belonging to my grandfather. It was gold with a purple stone, and I was of an age when, I dunno, I guess Scrooge McDuck and the Goonies were awesome and it seemed important that I have that gold ring. I buried the ring in the backyard, because that’s what you do with treasure.
Eventually, Grandpa discovered that the ring was missing, and I overheard a conversation between my grandparents that clued me in to the incredible sentimental value of the ring; I think it belonged to his brother, I don’t honestly recall the specifics. Anyway, I went out into the backyard and ripped it apart. I was in tears by the time the sun went down, so miserable that I couldn’t find the ring.
My grandmother found me, covered in mud and shame. I told her what I had done, and she told me that I next had to tell my grandfather.
I remember sitting in the kitchen, crying, so embarrassed to have not only stolen but now lost the gold ring. I expected my grandfather to be furious, to whip off his belt and give me a good thwack. Instead, he was quiet. When he spoke, in kind tones, he said, “I can tell you’ve had this on your chest for a long time. And it takes a big man to admit his mistakes."
And then Grandpa went to his jewelry box and he gave me a ring, a ring of my own. It was silver, with a black stone and a couple of diamonds. I’m sure now that it was one of his pinky rings, because that thing swam on my childish finger.
I kept looking for the gold ring. Eventually I found it – having murdered a good chunk of the grass below our orange tree – and when I gave the ring back to Grandpa I finally knew the weight of that tiny gold loop.
I keep both rings now; they’re in a very safe place. But sometimes I look at them and I remember what was learned, what was lost, and what was gained.
- David Ian Lee
