Inheritance

This is a rambling sort of story, so bear with me: Carter, now that he’s 9, was going to open a savings account. As I was making the plans for this (does our bank have savings accounts for minors, what paperwork is needed, what time do they open, will they take a piggybank full of change?), it occurred to me that Carter might get a kick out of seeing the vault. Which meant that I’d need to find our safety deposit box key.

Thinking about the safety deposit box made me remember what was inside–papers and legal documents and a ring from my mother, another from my grandmother, both would make nice gifts for my future daughters-in-law, should I be lucky enough to have them.

Then I began to fret. Three! I needed three rings to pass along! I thought harder about what was in that box. And then it came to me; I remembered a third ring, from my mother’s mother, my Gram, a pearl for June, her name and my birth month. With that settled, my mind returned to the tasks of the day.

The full importance of this chain of events didn’t come to me until later. Three. Not so long ago, the thought of passing along any jewelry to my sons would have sent me into despair. I would have wrung my hands and thought, Oh Avery, poor Avery!

But no more.

Somewhere there is a family raising a beautiful, lovely, cherished little girl, the girl who will become part of our family, and us part of hers. Somewhere, a mother braids her hair, or helps her into her ballerina costume, or asks her for the thousandth time, Please drink your milk. She’s out there waiting for us, and we are waiting for her. My grandmother’s ring will be perfect on her finger.

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