I ran my hand across a wall today and the light caught my solitaire in blue and purple sparkles. Most of the time I forget my ring. It has become a part of my hand, as familiar to my fingers as their own touch. But every now and then, the light will catch the diamond, and catch my eye.
More and more it's the trend for pre-engaged couples to go shopping for a ring together. The girl gives her input, points to the gold or white gold of choice. She'll finger the various cuts of diamond, and contemplate their many perfections. The couple will hold between them, a chart listing the letters and numbers of diamonds, the different shades between yellow and white. Finally the girl will settle on a caret she can be happy with.
This wasn't the way for me. I never saw my engagement ring, never had a clue what it would look like, until Dwayne pulled it from his pocket. That's not to say I would have turned down the opportunity to shop for a ring but Dwayne did it by himself. He did it the old-fashioned way, and I'm grateful.
After the light hit my ring, I pulled my fingers to my face and wiggled them to make the ring sparkle again. A thought occurred to me, perhaps absurd, but one that I like.
This ring is not about my taste in style or my sense of beauty. It's about Dwayne's. This ring is a gift. He has chosen it from all the other stones lining glass cases. Something about its gold curve and its single diamond made him stop. He thought it was lovelier than the rest. And if he thought it was beautiful, maybe in it I'll discover a piece of what drew him to me.