A little while ago, in the course of conversation, my mom noted that when I was one or two years old, I flushed her engagement ring down the toilet. Not on purpose; she'd taken it off to perform some household task or other and left it, inside a somewhat wadded-up kleenex, on the bathroom counter. I wandered in, and felt like playing with the lever that made the loud noise and the water splash, and saw only a tissue that could be flushed. So, in it went, and the ring was never seen again. Mama never talked to me about it, figuring it was her own fault; I don't recall having heard this story before. Just as well, and wise of her, because on the occasions when I've done something that has hurt someone else, the bits o guilt tend to stick inside my brain rather tenaciously.

I don't remember how I happened to bring up the ring-flushing this morning, but Mama said there was certainly no use feeling bad at this point, and furthermore, for all we know, it's possible I might have saved her life by that action. "It was a pretty big diamond," she said. "Who knows, someone might have killed me for it, so maybe you saved my life by getting rid of it then." That's maybe a farfetched scenario for making me feel better, but also effective. Moms can be cool that way.

Both of my parents also lost their original wedding rings, at different times (his lost, hers stolen). They got those replaced, at least, but the fact remains that they have none of their original rings. Luckily we are all of the philosophy that it's the love that's the most important.

contents of purple tricycle are copyright 2004 carrie lynn king unless otherwise noted.