Sparkle

Offered prompt: When is a possession more than a possession?

“But you always said you didn’t want one,” Anthony, my husband of six years, says, genuinely confused.

Turning a tad red and suddenly very warm, I, too, am baffled by my desire for a diamond engagement ring. I’ve been juggling and sitting on a confusing set of emotions for quite some time.

Before we married in 1987, many of our friends had been getting engaged. “Oh, did you see the size of her ring?” we’d always say simultaneously after seeing one after another bride-to-be wearing a hefty-carat ring.

“I’m a child of the 60s. My feminist self can’t be so cliché,” I’d told Anthony before we had become engaged, assuring him I didn’t need anything so conventional. Anthony took this in, and some months later, on a moonlit St. Lucia beach, he presented me with a small ruby ring and asked me to marry him.

“Oh, yes!” I’d answered, but before I took a breath, insisted, “I’m not changing my last name, and you have to wear a wedding ring as well.” I wanted to make damned sure this marriage was an equal partnership.

I was elated that we were getting married, yet, in truth, looking at that small stone, a little wave of disappointment swept through me every time I looked down. Come on, Abby. You said you weren’t into a traditional diamond ring. We love each other madly. That’s what’s important, I’ve admonished myself over the years, trying to override my covert disappointment.

All along, I’ve been cutting out pictures of alluring diamond rings from magazines, secretly stashing them in a manila folder, and rifling through them from time to time. Loving jewelry is in my blood. Growing up, my grandmother spent hours having me try on all her glamorous Art Deco necklaces, ornate rings, and cameos she adored, promising they would be mine someday. My mother collected unconventional pieces, and we often went through her jewelry box, trying on this one and that. The cool gold and smooth surfaces of the semi-precious stones felt glorious on my skin. Among all the jewels, however, there were very few diamonds, which neither my grandmother nor my mother truly cared about.

Today, knowing that wasn’t true for me, I gather my courage and speak to Anthony. “Well, I’ve changed my mind. I can’t quite explain it,” too embarrassed to admit to myself that I was not the pure feminist my Women’s Movement mother had trained; that deep down I had yearned for a diamond ring all along.

Anthony remains silent for what feels like endless moments. “All right, but I want to split the cost,” he finally says, a bit reluctantly. My stomach clenches, and I look away. It suddenly strikes me that I dearly want the ring not just as a gorgeous piece of jewelry but as a romantic emblem of his love for me. Still, since we always split all our expenses—rent, mortgage, groceries—I tell myself that his request is reasonable and within the boundaries I set long ago. You created your own box, Abby.

The next week, at the jewelers, I design my diamond ring, creating something a little different from any of those I’ve seen. And for years, every time someone remarks on it, I proudly say it was my design, hoping that, deep down, it will make up for my lingering disappointment of how it came about.

I remove my ring after our divorce, feeling it slip over my knuckle for what I believe will be the last time, following the norm of my now single status. Twenty-three years later, when selling my apartment, I go to gather any remaining jewelry. There, sitting inside the red velvet box, shines my beautiful diamond ring, and all my mixed emotions flood back.

My current partner of quite a few years and I are not married. It’s too bad I can’t wear this, flits through my brain. It will send a confusing message, I tell myself. But as I hold the sparkling diamond ring, my defiance of cultural norms returns. To hell with what people think. I grab the ring, slip it easily onto my finger, no longer caring about its symbolism, but rather owning that I created something beautiful I want the world to see.