This was my grandmother ring. My grandfather had bought it for her with his first salary right after the Second World War, and it was one of her most treasured possession. As far as I can remember, I used to admire it on her finger since I was a little girl. Right before my son was born, she gave it to me as a gift. She told me she did not want me to wait until she died for me to have it. It is one of the last conversations I had with her before her fatal stroke, and the two years that followed before she died.
Yesterday afternoon, during the two hours I stepped out for lunch, burglars came into our house and stole the ring, along with the rest of my family jewerly -- even my wedding band, which I had forgotten to put on in the morning. My dad told me that memories are in our heart, and that much worse could have happened. I know he is right. Yet right now I cannot stop but thinking: when are they just things?
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