just me doing a descriptive essay on a cheap old ring...of sentimental value.
The Treasure Found in Clay
People stared as my finger made a cling noise against the wall. Embarrassed, I took off down the hall, walking hastily and not looking back. I cautiously looked down at my finger on my left hand, hoping the stones were still there. The shine of the object immediately glistened back at me, and a strong sense of urgent relief cleansed my soul, seeing that the diamonds were still nudged between the tarnishing metal place holders. As I gazed at it, I noticed the increasing dull luster was becoming strongly evident, yet the white crystal-like stones continued to outsmart the waning metal of the ring. What was once silver on the roof of the ring, had turned into a light bronze that was holding the jewels in, like a treasure found in the dirt or in the midst of clay. The bottom rim of the metallic surface of the ring gradually turned gold as it made its way downward. The indentations on it were now more majestic-like from the honey-golden change; they appeared Victorian, with a hint of elfish influence. It was amazing gazing at the silver, bronze, and gold color schemes that polluted the once perfect round circle. I decided that was what made my ring more unique than the others; it was made out of metal instead of gold, therefore creating a multi-colored sphere of trust.
Over time, the interior of the ring eroded into fitting my finger more loosely, as the tarnishing insides showed a sleek strip of ebony, like a rusted penny from the nineteen tens. I’m almost proud of the indentation it made on my finger every time I took it off at night and set it on my nightstand. The remnants of rust left a tattoo of black around my finger, like a natural indication that I am taken.
“Is that real? It looks like it’s tarnishing…” said a lady in the elevator, as I proceeded to make my way downstairs and leave the premises at once.
My eyes met hers in a panic, but then, in hesitation, I let myself relax once more at the thought of what the ring was really for.
“No. It’s not. But it means more than diamonds,” I said, realizing I might have sounded completely asinine in that tiny elevator to that old woman, who was probably too old to remember the joyous rush of young love. Or maybe, in fact, I was completely wrong in that sense and she just simply wanted to know what a young woman like me was doing with a ring on her finger.
I walked out of the elevator proud of the object that daily rested upon my hand, the object that glared rainbows in the sun every time I moved my hair behind my ear with my hand. I was proud of the similar aroma of the aftermath of playing with loose change; the leftovers of metal handling that remained on your fingers after flipping a coin. The fact of its look or its origin was not a spectacle for me; however, others viewed it as invalid. I could wear a strain of yarn around my finger, and it would still have equal importance. The absence of riches and luxury has never been a fret of mine, nor has it been the main concern of my lover. To believe in something simply because you do, and to buy a fake ring simply because that is all you can mainly afford, will always mean more to me than anything else.
As I made it outside the building, I quickly gazed at my ring once more, not completely fathoming it being as fake as it was; for it was the most beautiful ring I had ever seen. The night my boyfriend bought it for me was the same exact day of our one year anniversary of being a couple; of being high school sweethearts.
“Pick whichever one you want, honey,” he had said, with the most cautious of tones, since he was so embarrassed we were looking at the fake jewelry rack at Wal-Mart.
“Are you sure you want one from here? We can always wait until I can afford one…”
“In five years? Sweetie, how else am I supposed to fight off all those boys at school? I mean, I’m a senior and I’ll be graduating soon, but I want something to show that I belong to a cute college guy!” I said, smiling back at him.
“I know, I just feel pathetic getting you a fake one. I mean, it’s good we are getting you one, as a symbol of our promise to each other to stay together,” he said.
I then came across the flashiest, brilliant, and wonderful piece of jewelry I had ever seen. It was a bright silver ring that looked so real, and it fit my finger perfectly. The three crystals in the middle stuck out like a light in the night; two smaller ones cuddling one big one right in the middle.
“Don’t you think that’s a little…well…noticeable? Flashy?” he said, as he gazed at the huge, brightly shining rock in the middle of it.
“Not at all! It’s almost not enough! It screams “property of Brent Rowning” all over it! It’s only ten dollars, how about it?” I let out.
He agreed, of course. That began my whole journey with the promise ring of my dreams, the ring that never ceases to change shape and color. There is one thing about the ring that does not change, however, and that is what it symbolizes: complete and honest unconditional love through thick and thin, regardless of all of life’s circumstances, and the eternal promise of eventual marriage. Maybe that sounds too much like a fairy tale to be true; maybe believing in a fake ring is a bad metaphor to some, but regardless of all of the hype, its form and importance is true and loyal, and cannot be destroyed without melting it with magma first. Even at recycled metal ring can turn into a new beauty, if given the chance. The rise I get when I look at it and remember the promise we made means more than any treasure.