‘Child, I didn’t raise you to live life dragging a casket. You don’t need an anchor; you need a rudder.’ She poked me in the chest—her arthritis had pretty well gnarled her fingers—and said, ‘Cut it loose. Bury it. It’s just dead weight. You can’t rake the rain, box up the sunshine, or plow the clouds, but you can love. And this’—she tapped the ring on the chain—‘will remind you that love is possible. George gave it to me, and now I’m giving it to you.’
