I was having breakfast with my friend Bernadette in Dublin.
The waitress brought our tea and while I noticed her pretty pink nails, Bernadette commented on her ring - a thin gold band with a tiny stone on top.
“What a beautiful ring,” said Bernadette. “Look, Anne, isn’t that gorgeous?”
The waitress turned so I could see. She wore a ring on almost every finger.
“You’ve got so many rings!” I exclaimed.
“There’s a story behind every one,” she said shyly. “Would you like to hear?”
We nodded eagerly.
“That one with the stone is a ring that my best friend and I bought for each other. And this was my granny’s,” she said pointing to a silver ring that twisted several times around her finger. “My boyfriend made this band and put my initials on it” she wiggled it on her middle finger. “And this one here is one that my brother and I both have and wear to keep each other close. My other good friend bought me this one,” she pointed to a sparkling ring she wore on her index finger, “and this one my mum gave me. It’s a lot of rings but I feel naked without them.”
“You bring your people with you wherever you go,” I said, sitting back in admiration.
“Yes,” the waitress smiled wide, “that’s the story of my hands.”