Jewelry often tells a story

Jewelry often tells a story

This is a story about two rings that are really one ring and why jewelry is so sentimental. To get there, we have to back up a bit to when I was graduating from high-school, and my father gave me a gift.

First of all, graduating was not a given for me. I skipped so much school in my last year they weren’t legally allowed to pass me. Thankfully, my principal liked me, so they offered to put me on a “home program” where attendance wasn’t counted.

There were three rules in home program:

  • Pick up and drop off homework on Fridays
  • Complete exams at the end of the year
  • Do not attend school otherwise

My teenage brain was on fire: so … you’re saying that instead of going to school I get to stay home where I wanted to be the whole time anyway? Like, it’s forbidden for me to go to school on the regular? And, just so we’re on the same page, this is a punishment for skipping school?

I accepted the offer and, at the end of the year, graduated by the seat of my pants.

Which brings us back to the graduation gift. The ceremony was over and my dad presented me with this petite blue velvet box with gold trim. He was proud and nervous. Now, we were broke, too. So spendy gifts were not a thing. So, when I opened it, I held my breath. I didn’t know what to expect. Inside I found the prettiest little thing I had ever seen – a soft yellow gold ring set with a tear-shaped sapphire surrounded with tiny sparkly diamonds. I loved it.

I wore it everywhere. I wore it every day. A few years later, I moved from Montreal to Vancouver and the ring became even more important to me. It was a symbol of love, safety and family right there on my finger when my actual family was so far away.

And then one day, maybe 15 years later, on vacation in New Brunswick, I took the ring off while kayaking. It had been chaffing, so I put it in my pocket. I had a great day exploring the waterfront. Forgot all about the ring until later that night, and—poof—it was gone. It wasn’t in my pocket. Or the kayak. Or my room or anywhere. I looked high and low for the rest of my vacation. I was devastated.

My father has passed since. I can remember him clear as day when he gave me the ring. He was in his light grey wool sport coat, dark collared shirt and black Levis. He had hair! He was looking dapper. Young. Alive. After he passed, I replaced the ring. I wear it often, and even though it’s different, I still see the history and love reflected in the facets of the jewel.

And that’s the thing with jewelry. It often tells a story.

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