It is already slightly scratched on the bottom and I’ve only had it 8 months. This wear makes sense though, as it goes with me everywhere. He gave it to me after a long time of wanting it and when he slid it on my finger, breath held, praying it would fit, my ownership of it was complete.
But I know it is not just mine, this ring on my left hand.
It is also his. I see it and think of him and the hours he put into building a wall to buy it. Landscaping was hot and had long days but decent pay, and this symbol on my finger lets me know he will always provide. And this ring is his in the same way that I am his.
But it is also my parents. I wouldn’t know how to wear it if it weren’t for them. And so I look at it and I see my mom holding my Dad after he experienced injustice and I see my dad rubbing her shoulders after a long day of changing diapers.
And it is my sister’s. In its shine I see her face, not perfect, not flawless, but right. A face that taught me how to behave in the first place—taught me how to maintain a relationship when it is hard.
And it is my town’s—a town that taught me to be proud of a man who would work hard enough to put the diamond on my finger.
But mostly it is mine.
And I wear it and I hear in it the voices of everyone. I look at it and I know who I am and who’s I am, and I know what made this ring will sustain.
Yes, it is enough.