I tried on my wedding ring yesterday. It isn't mine yet, really. We bought it, and our wedding date is engraved inside now, and it looks perfect nestled against my engagement ring. But it's not mine yet.
We found this ring at the little neighborhood jewelry store that my engagement ring came from. We love this place; the first piece of jewelry Michael ever gave me, an Edwardian aquamarine ring, came out of its window, and he bought the diamond earrings I wear every day there too. When we're out running errands on Sunday afternoons, we always stop to look in the window. Or I should say I stop and look in the window and point things out, and Michael nods disinterestedly -- unless it's close to a holiday or my birthday. That is a cliche that has worked well for us. I am very sparkly because of it.
The ring's original engraving was from June 1914, which is about when my engagement ring was made as well. I like to think that the woman who wore this was about five feet tall and had little hands and fingers like mine. I like to think it was bought at a jewelry store on 4th Avenue and given to her at a church in Park Slope or maybe Sunset Park, or maybe, if there was trouble in the family and a wedding wasn't such a good idea, at Borough Hall on Joralemon Street. June 1914 was a turbulent month; all hell was breaking loose in Europe, and so maybe she had an inkling of what the next years would bring. Maybe she tucked a piece of muslin doused in perfume into her corset, and after the wedding, she and her new husband caught an evening train to the shore for their honeymoon. Maybe she wore the ring until she died; maybe she sold it to put food on the table. Maybe it was lost and then found 10 different ways, and she cried each time. Maybe with some coaxing, she let her daughter play with her jewelry, and she watched her with a gimlet eye to make sure that ring didn't disappear into the baseboards. Maybe, during the weeks before her husband gave her this ring, her eyes shone with dreams of what was to come. Maybe, together, she and her husband made them real.
So it's not my ring yet.
Terrific post, Cate. Here's to you and the ring that's not yet yours, and to Michael, and the dreams you'll make real together.
ReplyDeleteSo fitting that you see just how you are about to embark on a shared history. Although I take off my engagement ring to clean or paint, I never take off my wedding bands. I have only taken them off once in our nine years-when I was pregnant with Catherine and swelled up too much to be able to even fit them over my knuckle. I wore them on a necklace to keep them close to me.
ReplyDeleteI remember looking at my mom's finger once when she was putting on lotion. It has a permanent impression where her wedding band sits. My dad's wedding band is flat on one side from where he fell from a third-story roof and landed on his left arm. He never had the ring fixed so now his finger is calloused flat on the inside. I wonder who will next wear these rings and what history they will add to them.
Thanks for sharing.
beautiful, beautiful. verklempt.
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ReplyDeleteThere really is something auspicious about wearing a piece of jewelry that's lived a full life. I feel lucky when I wear an emerald ring my mom handed down to me; it made a trip through the trash compactor and surfaced unscathed. A true survivor!
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