I had never seen my grandmother hurt before. Not emotionally, not by me. I felt so bad. I wanted to cry. My grandmother was wise and has always told me she sees too much of her daughter in me. Things I would do or how I fell in love with melodies, music. She sat up in the living room of our small apartment, waiting all night playing with her purse. She knew her words were echoing in my head, that she had touched my heart, and I didn’t know what to do with my guilt. She also knew I couldn’t sleep without talking to her. I came from my bedroom, my little brother, JK, was sound asleep. My eleven-year-old heart is ticking and pounding in my little chest and my socks trac through a thick hallway carpet. “Grandma?” I said almost pathetically. I can’t remember if she answered, but I do remember apologizing over and over. “You’ll never steal from me again?” she said. “NO!!” I said, “No! I’m sorry.” She knew I meant it. She knew I would never do this again. I think she understood my mistake, my rush and eagerness, eager to impress. I had stolen my grandmother’s diamond and ruby red ring to give as an offering to a young girl, a fellow classmate at Irvington Elementary. To her surprise, she accepted the large ring, but when her mother saw she had to used two fingers to wear the right I’d given her, she had to find out where it came from. She gave me up, and that night I learned the value of being trustworthy and accepting responsibility. | LH