“This is my favorite one,” she wrote. “I looked at Navajo symbols and I based these two rings on the symbol for the sun, which means ‘constant,’ and the broken arrow, which stands for ‘peace.’”

Had she used any other word than “constant,” the word my sister was still repeating in the background, would I still have felt the “that’s the one” pang in my heart? I have no idea. But it seemed like a sign, and, like many people mourning a loved one, I was desperate for signs.

I got the ring in October, the birthday month Dad and I share. It’s actually two rings, made of 18-carat yellow gold. The black diamond setting hints at my dad’s dark humor and “Black Irish” roots. Inside, in teeny-tiny letters, his name is engraved alongside mine and my siblings'. To me, the three hash marks on the top ring represent each of us, with the whole symbolizing my dad and our family.

At first I thought I’d wear the rings separately day to day, then together for dressier nights out. I’ve surprised myself by keeping them together, because I like the way they fit. I also like when people compliment them, because it gives me a chance to talk a little about who my father was.

One admirer, however, told me about her interest in Victorian mourning jewelry. Once upon a time, people wore brooches and rings fashioned out of their deceased loved ones’ hair. It was a time when propping up dead bodies for photos wasn’t unheard of, and even the Queen wore mourning black. It seems macabre, but I get it now.

This week, amid preparations for finalizing Dad’s headstone and marking the first anniversary of his death, my siblings Skyped me to float the idea of each of us getting a tattoo in his honor. I’m the only one of us without any ink, so the conversation was really about whether or not I was willing to go under the needle when I’ve spent 37 years avoiding it. I said yes, and so the debate over designs and symbolism begins again. I look forward to it.