In my twenties I faithfully wore a Claddagh ring.
Straight from Ireland, its twisting, aged silver reminded me of my heritage and my late Grandfather.
A proud Irishman, God was his closest friend, the color green a near second.
I lost that ring twice.
The first time, I panicked.
My grandfather had only passed several months before, I needed his memory in my hand.
I searched for days and finally gave up.
One morning my eyes caught a glimmer on my night stand.
Glistening at the first sun peeking through my shade was the crown of the Claddagh.
Nestled under my grandfather’s memorial card, was my ring.
Suddenly in a place I had looked many times before.
I slipped it on my finger and winked back at the picture of that handsome Irishman.
He knew I still needed him.
The second time I lost that ring was on a weekend away.
At some point in the excitement of our trip and the whirlwind of young love, it disappeared.
My dedicated boyfriend helped me search our hotel room to no avail.
Devastated, I could not believe my Irish treasure was gone again.
I realized that I had forgotten all about that lost ring on the way home from our trip,
as I looked down at the diamond that had taken its place.
A handsome Irishman once again at my side.
The luck of the Irish, glistening once again in my hand.
May God be with you and bless you.
May you see your children’s children.
May you be poor in misfortunes
and rich in blessings.
May you know nothing but happiness
from this day forward.
(read on our wedding day, as my grandfather smiled down)
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