I remember my father’s rings most of all. He was a reserved man. He didn’t ascribe to any ostentation. He learned, as we all do, to build up walls too high to see over. The barbarians at the gates can be kept outside if he built his walls high enough. Yet, I always remember the rings. Little bits of ornamentation that he felt safe enough to share. They meant something to him… and so they mean something to me. Rough, calloused hands. Gnarled and hard from a lifetime of work and fighting to survive. I can still see the wrinkles, creases, and oft-broken knuckles; sitting underneath the knuckles, beautifully crafted gold and rubies, softening the rocky granite that they rested on. Those hands were hard, but I always remember them softly. Those hands that broke faces and crafted adult things were tender too. I see these rings still, resting upon my shoulders as my dad leaned down to kiss me on the crown of my head. I see these rings reaching out to me to help me back up. I see these rings feeding a family, making sure we were alright. I see these rings in memories of what it means to be a man. To live. To love. I see these rings in my dreams. | DS