~from Jill

Last summer when we first moved to Florida, the center pearl fell out of my engagement ring into grass crisp as celery. With ice and a bottle of windex, I was able to wrench the remaining band off my finger. I was stunned to have lost it, but along with our other losses, it almost seemed routine.

Now, a year later, my mother noticed, and prompted me to replace the pearl and resize the band. She offered to pay for a new pearl, and urged me to go to a jeweler.

In 95 % plus humidity, I pressed the buzzer of a strange shop and waited, none too happy. Then spoke with the jeweler and his wife, showing them the ring, explaining what I needed. The wedding band remaining was pinching the skin my my finger swollen around it.

“That doesn’t look good,” Anna said.

“Are you pregnant?” her husband asked me.

She swatted him with her hand and told him to shush, embarrassed for me.

“No,” I admitted miserably, “I’ve just gained 30 pounds since I first wore it.”

“Let us cut it off for you, it only takes a minute,” she soothed. I had to think about that. After all, most likely I will lose those extra pounds, and why break something that’s never been marred, something so perfect. I remember a friend telling me she never took her wedding ring off, not even in the shower, or to swim; it’s sacred to me, like a part of my body, she had confided.

The jeweler and his wife looked at me expectantly, and I thought about the college courses I would start the following week. The last time I was a student was in 1992, and for thirteen years I had somehow been satisfied with only an AA. Then I abruptly followed my husband across the States, and went jobless for a year. Survived four major hurricanes, and regained the 30-pounds I had spent the year before losing. Suddenly, finishing my degree began to matter. I was different, and I wanted different things for myself.

“Cut it off,” I said.

She took my hand in her hands, rubbed my finger with smooth oil and murmured to me that everything would be all right, while Ari took a steel cutter and broke through the band.

“It’s done,” she said, “Now, don’t you feel better?” My swollen finger still held the shape of the gold circle, and holding it up, looked like a small hourglass doll. “Keep massaging it,” she said, “ you’ll be as good as new.”

On registration day, I got sick in a restroom, and left with wet paper towels to wipe my face. On the way out, I saw a girl on the phone -- short, blue-black hair, a nose ring. I could hear her crying before I passed her in the hall. I wanted to do or say something comforting, but she turned away, slumping further into her backpack.

When I was last in school, I was that kind of girl. I remember crying with a teacher after more than one class, trying to explain something or other, not making much sense. I was underweight, insecure, and felt discouraged and alone.

Now I was somebody’s wife and mother, and more solid (literally) in my grounding. I could do this. I just needed some adjusting.

I have two rings on my hand now. Both have been resized. Not only do they fit me perfectly, but I have room to spare. Sometimes I twist them, thinking of how far I’ve come, and how far I have yet to go. I have the Goldman’s business card in my wallet. They urged me to take it, and come back again. Maybe I’ll be back when I’ve lost those extra pounds, or even just a few, just to have the rings sized again.