your grandmothers wedding ring rests rusted on a white tiled sink, golden drips from faucets never fixed it spreads green copper stains ruthlessly in the soap dish and fills the bathroom (really that whole dark little hall and out the window and into the ivy) with the smells of a merry-go-round game on a fairground half a century ago. the angel cake clouds that were once, like michaelangelo, painted on the ceiling have been darkened by waterstains and mold. they now look like an impartial texas storm, moody, grey, dark, and like their masters cloudy grey eyes (no longer seeing much of anything) the beauty has actually grown with old age.
after she died they sold and demolished that bathroom (and the little hall, and they pulled up the ivy- its invasive, and had grown through a crack in the windowglass). Im not sure if anyone thought to take the ring. you and I, we were not allowed to breathe that fairground air full of mold and dust and sunlight and laughs o