The Circle that holds eternity

Aviv Pour

A circle small enough to hold eternity,

Wrapped with a collection of crystal chronicles–

The ring, weightless on my mother’s finger,

Was heavy with each small diamond holding a memory,

Of laughter and grief from the long days she’s passed.

It gleamed once on my grandmother’s hand,

As she baked, the dough she kneaded leaving pieces of itself

In the deep crevices of the diamonds,

The scent of her kitchen lingering on the metal–

A quiet imprint that only we can smell.

Later, it graced my aunt’s hand,

And heard her say “I do.”

It caught the joyous tears that slid down her cheeks,

The thin shield of salt draped over the diamonds,

Securing the smell of her mom’s kitchen,

And forever etching it into the circle.

Now, the ring hugs my finger, humming with tales and triumph,

The diamonds firm between evocation, each one a beat of my heart,

Shielded by the generations before me.

It will watch me– my reflections, memories, fragments, and imprints–

And etch themselves into its surface,

Claiming their place in its silent history.

When I, too, will say “I do,”

My tears will strengthen its crystalline shield.

In the moment I become a mother,

My knuckles pale in the delivery room’s grip,

The ring will tighten as it bears the weight of a new life,

binding the past and present.

Just as it rests on my sixteen-year-old hand now,

It will one day rest on my daughter’s finger, an echo of us all.

A relic of the experiences and memories her blood derives,

From me, from my mom, my aunt, and my grandma.

A thread in the eternal circle–

A circle small enough to hold eternity.