I twist the diamond rings around her finger.
It has been years, she says, since
she was able to take them off. Now they are stuck
and she doesn’t worry about it because
when I ask her how they met, what she first thought
of him, her eyes glow and she tells the story.
I think true love must be the rings getting stuck. Or it must be
not worrying when you can’t get them off. Maybe it looks at me
as I push them around their circle on her finger before
running down the hall, picking up one of my dolls.
I exist because they saw each other. I exist because
Mexico exists. All the men in her life died
and when mine did she held my hand she
started talking about God.
