You can't leave Ireland without buying a Claddagh ring, I told myself. It just isn't done. So today after spending a bit of time taking pictures in the bay, I stopped in a small jewelry store on my way back to Eyre Square.
The store was tiny but well-stocked with beautiful jewelry and other fragile, shiny things. I looked around for a few minutes, deciding what gifts I'd buy and for whom if money was no object. Then I went to the counter and the saleswoman helped me find a ring that fit. It took a few tries because I have my paternal grandfather's chunky fingers, but the fourth one was perfect. I admired it for a moment before deciding to buy it.
"Would you like to wear it out?" The saleswoman asked.
"Oh, sure," I said.
"Right then. Does anyone have your heart?"
I knew what she meant, and being very much single I said no, no one had my heart, and she told me to turn the ring around so the crown pointed to my wrist instead of my fingernail.
But even as I answered no, I knew I was lying. Someone very much has my heart. She stole it almost a year ago and I think she'll have it forever.
I wouldn't have it any other way.