I use my hands all the time and clumsily at that. I use them with children and toys, wires and electric boxes, wood, hammers, drills, plants, thorns, and in dirt-- especially in dirt. Likewise, my feet, they travel far and wide, they climb, run, trod, kick, and plod in dirt-- especially in dirt.
The consequence is that shoes get holes, sole cracks, unraveled threads, uneven rubber, and after hours, weeks, and months of biting the dust, they all eventually bite the dust. My hands don't handle adornment well-- watches, bracelets, fingernail polish, and rings. I bypass all such ornamentation. With one exception.
We had a tradition of climbing that tree, boughs stretching their arms wide over the same playground where we first held hands. The irony of committing to marriage next to a playground didn't occur to me until years later. I was not even twenty. By American standards we were destined for a tumultuous year, at best, before filing for our inevitable divorce. But young as we were, we weren't playing. In all seriousness, we were planning to stay together for as long as heaven would permit.
Though I wasn't entirely surprised when he pulled a small box from his pocket, I didn't have any expectations of or familiarity with the ring the box would produce. He had gone shopping for it with his aunt, using as vague direction the only two hints I had offered: no stones are to protrude from the band and sapphires are nice. The ring, it was perfect for me. It is one of my most favorite possessions. It is simple and beautiful. It's not big and not flamboyant. That unique little ring has become a symbol to me of being known and accepted.
I'm rough on the things made for wearing, even and most especially the ones I love. For the second time in its existence, this special little ring is currently sporting a small hole where there used to be a blue stone. I think when it is fixed, I'll put it on a chain around my neck.
