Memories of poinsettias and rings

My housemate brought home a mini poinsettia for my desk, a sign of the winter season to come. With the bise blowing at full tile it seems like winter has arrived. I love the little drops of water nestled on its intense red.
My mind went back to the poinsettia my mother called Jerry after her lawyer boyfriend who gave it to her. It looked nothing like my cute little plant. For 17 years it grew and grew until it would have been successful in a staring role in a horror film about swamps and trees with long tendrils. As for blooming, usually one or two leaves stuck out at the end of the long branches. She couldn’t quite bring herself to throw it out. When it disappeared I don’t know—sometime between when I moved to Toulouse and moved back when she was dying of cancer.
This led to another Jerry/mother memory.
Jerry had given her a beautiful ring, with a gold leaf turned up at the edges and the veins finely etched on the surface. On the rib were tiny diamond chips.
When she died I got the ring.
Everytime I wore it, something went wrong: a fight with my then boyfriend, a flat tire, a lost sale. I told a friend who said to put it into salt to purify it. I did.
The next time I wore the ring, I was in a rush to get to work. The car keys were missing. I searched and searched.
Nothing.
I took off the ring, and the keys appeared.
Was my mother cursing me from the grave?
Figuring my mother and I had a tortured relationship and my mother and my daughter had a good one, I gave it to Llara.
The first time she wore it she had a battle royale with her partner. She never wore it again. Somewhere in her moves it disappeared.
Maybe it ended up with poinsettia.