They hold meanings, memories.
I can tell you about each one of mine; where they come from, what they mean to me.
I wear rings like my mother does, like my grandmother does.
I can tell you stories about the ring from my mother's jewellery box, and how much it means to me to wear it myself
I've been raised by hands full of rings. They've cared for me, loved me, inspired me.
One day, after I'm gone, my rings will be in a box.
Their stories forgotten, their meanings and memories long gone.
They will be nothing but silver.
But I hope that one day someone finds them in that box, and thinks they're pretty, like I do.
I hope someone wears them and carries them through their life, like I did,
Collecting their own stories, their own memories with them, to pass on as they tell people about their rings.
Until there is nothing left, but pretty rings in a box.