9 Tiny Diamonds

The prompt was to take an object, map out stories and write them.

The stories represent the 9 tiny diamonds in my wedding ring.

During the search for a wedding ring, a shop owner turned to my boyfriend and said "Why don't you find something in that case over there?" There was one ring, made out of an unknown metal, with enamel letters that spelled out Haboru Emlek 1914. It was years before I was able to learn from alt.languages.slavic (or somesuch) that it meant "war relic". My engagement ring was a Hungarian WWI memento. It was too large, and I wrapped masking tape around it so that it wouldn't fall off my finger. I have been too large to wear it for years, even without the tape.

We went looking for rings on our New Year vacation with my father-in-law. I was able to realize that the thing I really liked about the vintage rings I was seeing was the gold, rose gold. To me it suggests history, times past.

We went to a vintage ring store in the City. While looking in the cases, a woman entered. Have you ever had someone make you so uncomfortable that you simply fled the scene? That was this woman. She started asking intrusive questions of the salesperson, such as what her ethnicity was. And you know how sometimes in jewelry stores they'd put other kinds of flashy objects in the display cases? In this case they were crystal animals "Are those pigs Baccarat?" she asked, loudly. Months later we ate at a local restaurant. Shortly after the waiter started taking our order, the woman with the unmistakable voice began berating him for some imagined misstep. It was her restaurant, and the situation was mortifying. Food was good, though. This woman intrudes on my thoughts sometimes when I think about my ring. Maybe she couldn't help herself.

I found my wedding band shortly after the first of the year, in the window of a jewelry store. It is a plain band that can be modified to place teeny pave diamonds. They had it in rose gold. I went in. I didn't have money for stones, but they let me try some by putting tiny daubs of wax on the band and then placing tiny sapphires on it as it began to cool. I loved it. I excitedly told my mom about the ring and the sapphires. Shortly after, my dad told me that I could use the tiny diamonds from a pin of my grandmother's. I was so happy. My sister, who was getting married the same year, really needed a large mineral tribute. I did not, since my hands were covered in pancake batter all day at work. It is the perfect ring for me. Mrguy paid for the ring, and the diamond placement. The white against the rose gold reminds me of the bubbles in a glass of pink champagne. 

After the wedding, mrguy went on tour. I accepted an invitation to sail with a friend and his dad. The short story is that as the waves crashed over the sailboat and I realized that things were not in control and noticed that my friend's dad's life jacket did not fully close around him and as I learned that the radio had no batteries and as I saw waterlogged vanilla cream sandwich cookies disintegrating in the hold while I said a Hail Mary, my hands shrank from freezing water and wind. I moved my wedding ring onto my thumb and curled it tight. I thought about how ironic it was that I would be losing my ring and perhaps my life during the week after my wedding.

My mom became prideful about the gift of the tiny diamonds over the years. As her dementia took hold she began to finger the ring when we were together and to ask me if I still liked my ring. More recently, before I stopped visiting her, she would often add that she didn't know why she had given them to me and she should ask for them back. I would reply that I am now so fat that I can't remove the ring, so that's too bad. By saying this, I am striking out in two ways, by saying no to her, and by telling her that she is the mother of a fat daughter, a fate worse than death.

In her safe deposit box are items of her mother's that are too vulgar for her to wear. Among them is a pretty sizable pear shaped diamond ring, given to my grandmother by her second husband, the dread McToad. I've taken to wearing this ring. Not around my mom, because she'd have an episode, but around the house and at work. Preferably with dungarees of some sort. I am trying to earn the ring through all of the many thousands of dollars worth of Depends and butt creams and such that I have purchased for her over the last ten years. Also sweat equity and shame.

My mom could never get away with wearing the ring (due to her being so classy and all) but I can.

However now that I wear the thing on a regular basis I don't really feel the need to. Its work is becoming complete. 

In the meantime am working to reinstall the proper associations with my own ring. It was given with love. It represents my love for my husband and creation of our own family and joining his, not duty to the one that brought me to that moment.