This is part truth/part lie:

I often wear my grandmother’s (on my mother’s side) rings – they are gold and gaudy and I love them. They dig into my fingers and leave green lines by the end of the evening. But, I don’t mind somehow. I like to think that she had those same lines on her fingers when she was my age; that we had that one thing in common.

Mary Ann was 50 when she died and I was 2.

She married five times and slept with many more men than she ever said “I do” to. But she still wore white on her wedding day. Wore white and smirked. Knowingly. I’m sure she knew it was all a big joke. That’s why she smoked, took pills, drank too much… She knew how she’d die. Like a rock star: depressed, a little high and totally worshiped.

She destroyed tens, maybe even hundreds of hearts when the stroke hit. I was told her eyes were closed until the thin lime line buzzed straight. But somewhere deep down, I bet she could smell the flowers; could hear the desperate bedside sobs, pleas, sometimes prayers, for her to, “just open her eyes one more time,” to come back to life, to “rethink the divorce” or “affair.” She probably knew it all inside her dark little head and was smirking the whole time.

In her will, she left jewelry for my cousin Julie and I – Julie a gold rose necklace and me a gold rose ring. Since I was 16, I’ve never taken the ring off. It’s the only piece of her jewelry that doesn’t hurt my fingers or leave a green line. It’s the only piece of jewelry I cannot remove.

I like to think that means something. Instead, I just smirk.