The jeweler says they’ve done what they can, handing me the princess cut diamond soldered to a band I chose seven years ago. It’s been rhodium plated and still my body detects nickel. I scratch the line of swollen blisters on my left finger and think of everything that the ring witnessed: hospital rooms and oil changes, the salty water of Galway Harbor, bitter words shouted in the car, the morning there wasn’t a heartbeat, our nightly ritual of repeating what the kids said that day. Everything is faded now. And vibrant. I nod. A silicone one will last longer.
Sarah Hare is a writer living in Southern Indiana. Her work has been published in Mutha Magazine.