Brynn Ovitz

A little girl walked up to me with her arm extended, fist tight. Hidden between clenched fingers lay a ring I was given on the night of my 16th birthday. In the center of the band sits a dazzling sapphire; the ripples along the top come alive when struck by light. When this occurs, the ring demands attention; it casts a light onto the nearest surface like a mirror rebounding rays of sun. My cat chases the bright shadow around the kitchen as if a fly taunting him by traveling to heights beyond reach.

When I worked as a counselor, at the end of each day, I’d sit with campers as we waited for the buses to arrive. One afternoon, a camper of mine grabbed my wrist and yanked my hand with one swift motion. When I turned around, the kid wore a colossal smile on his face. My ring was nowhere in sight. He told me he threw it. Once the buses departed, staff and I ravaged through the grass in panic, but I went home that day with tears glazing my eyes, staring in disbelief at my naked finger.

This ring holds significance because it was my mom’s promise ring from my dad. So when that little girl opened her hand like a blooming flower to reveal my lost treasure, I was euphoric. I hugged her, and she looked into my eyes, hers wide as she nodded. “I’d feel the same way,” she’d said, “if I lost my stuffed animal, ‘’Bunny.”