As a kid, I remember my dad always wore this ring.
Even back then, it was already worn and faded, but he wore it with a sense of pride I couldn’t understand.
I just knew I loved it because he loved it.
A couple of years ago, he gave it to me. When he slipped it into my hand, it felt heavier than I thought. It was the first time I truly felt his public approval.
Was it time for him to pass it on?
Does he see me as ready? As worthy?
Later, he told me the story of the ring. His dad, my abuelo, gave it to him just weeks before he passed away.
Well., damn.
That’s why it felt so heavy. There was more emotion tied to this ring than I ever imagined. My dad isn’t dying yet, but I know he feels like he’s living on borrowed time.
I never knew my abuelo, and if I’m honest, I hardly know my dad.
But this ring… this worn, humble ring… gives me a thread connection to the men who came before me.
Men I’m still trying to understand.
Maybe one day, when it’s my time, I’ll pass it on too. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll mean even more.
