Once, quite a few years ago, there was a little girl who spent most of the time with her grandparents. Her mother worked nights, and her father worked days and went to school; they were not home much. Her grandparents lived out in the country, and behind their house, as far as she could see were gardens and apple orchards and bee keeps for honey, and she loved it. But the best part was that she got to follow her grandpa everywhere, helping him work the orchard when she could, but usually just enjoying being around him; to her, he was the greatest guy on earth.

The little girl’s grandpa had a big, sparkly ring, which he wore always, on the third finger of his left hand. It had four large stones in it that flashed in the sun. It was large enough for the little girl to fit two of her fingers into at once. When they sat on the porch swing at lunch, or at the day’s end, the grandfather would remove his ring and let the little girl hold it in the sunlight, watching the prisms fly around her like fireflies.

When the girl was six years old, her grandpa died suddenly, and soon after that, her grandmother moved away from the country house and its lovely orchards. The girl also moved away with her family, and she never again saw the house where so many of her favorite memories lived. But, when she was ten years old, her mother told her that her grandpa had left her something: the ring he always wore, and that she always played with.

The girl was ecstatic. She tried wrapping the shank of the massive ring with yarn, but the yarn itched, and the ring was still too big for her finger. So she put the ring on a chain around her neck and wore it under her shirt, where she could look at it whenever she wanted to, and remember her beloved grandpa, the orchard, and the sunlit porch.

When the girl was thirteen years old, she lost the ring. It was there around her neck while she was at school, but when she got home, she discovered it was gone. The chain had apparently broken, and with it, her heart; she had lost her adored grandfather’s ring. She knew he would be upset at its loss, were he still alive, and she cried. She searched everywhere she could think of for the ring, but it was as if it had disappeared.

A few weeks after she lost the ring, the girl was sitting up late watching television; her parents had already gone to bed. When the movie she was watching ended, she turned out the lights and felt her way down the hall to her dark room, where she clicked on the light next to the door.

Her grandfather was sitting on the end of her bed looking out the window; he turned and looked at her. He was not changed at all. He still wore the denim overalls he always wore when he’d worked on the orchard. His eyes were sad but understanding and gentle. She was not afraid of him; she was afraid that if she moved, he would disappear. And then he spoke.

“Well, you lost my ring, did you?” he asked. The girl nodded slowly.

“I will tell you where to find it this time, but if you ever lose it again, it will be gone forever. Look under the building on stilts, next to where you and your friends were playing volleyball the day you lost the ring. Move the weeds; you will find it there.”

With that, her grandpa stood up, smiling at her; turning toward the window, he vanished. She could still see where he had been sitting, and she sat there too, and thought of what he had said. She wondered if it were true, or if she had been dreaming. After a while she went to bed, and her last thought was that she was going to look where her grandpa had directed her. The following day was Saturday; she would be alone on the school grounds.

The girl awoke early Saturday morning, hopped on her bike and rode the mile and a half to her school. She knew what her grandpa had meant, the portable classroom buildings in the back of the school…right next to the volleyball courts. The weeds under the portable were thick and dry, and she tried not to think of spiders or snakes as she crawled under the building. And then, when she pushed some weeds aside, she saw the ring, still attached to the broken chain. It was right where her grandpa had told her she would find it.

Over the next few years, the girl was much more careful where and when she wore her grandfather’s ring. Quite often she chose to leave it in her mother’s jewelry box, where she knew it would be safe. But she took it out and wore it on special days, always feeling her grandpa close to her whenever she did. The last time she wore the ring was on the day of her graduation from high school.

In her first year of college, her house was burglarized. The thieves took the blender, the toaster-oven, her brother’s album collection…and her mother’s jewelry box.

             & nbsp; 

I never saw my grandfather’s ring again.

I learned more about that ring as I grew up. It was platinum, with four one-carat diamonds set in a row across the top, with a Masonic symbol in the center. My grandfather had been a 32^nd Degree Mason. He had worn the ring as his wedding ring for years, only removing it for me to play with when I sat next to him. The ring was a size thirteen; my grandpa was a big, tall man.

I often wonder how much the thieves got for that ring when they sold it. It was quite a prize, and worth a lot of money. But I know they never got out of it anything close to what I did. I got the memory of my grandpa’s love. Those “diamonds” still sparkle in my heart.