Some memories are questionable: is it something you honestly remember, or is it a story told to you so frequently that it starts to feel like you do?
But this story is about memories that are as authentic as any other.
I remember standing in this large room with tall ceilings, a friendly home, in front of a closet.
I wanted something from that closet, but this large, aged woman would not allow me to get it until I did something that scared me -- ask for it.
When my desire for sweets overcame that anxiety, I finally asked for and received my candy.
Recently, that memory changed a bit, but I'm still sure it's authentic.
So, instead of a closet full of candy, my grandma is handing over a ring with a red gemstone. She tells me I'll have to grow to fit into the ring as it's too large for my tiny fingers.
Even now, 19 years later, that ring is still too large, and it's unlikely for my fingers to grow. Perhaps she meant that for me to grow would mean overwinning the anxiety of having the ring be made smaller.
But she probably didn't, as I assume she was only human.
We'll never know, as not long after the memory, she died. Any day now, I'll have known the ring she gave me longer than I ever knew her.
I wore that too-large ring anyway and broke it before ever really using it, and now, in my memories, there's no candy, and she's handing over a broken ring, as it always seemed to have been.
