Hope or Something Like It (2018)
A string of sleigh bells tinkled as I stepped into the shop. Tim was with a customer, so I busied myself by looking around. The small jewelry store offered much to see. Several antique tabletop cases displayed gemstones and precious metals, another contained a variety of rare collectible coins, and a large oak curio paid homage to the jeweler’s trade with its collection of vintage hand tools; wooden handled engravers, tiny hammers, a brass lathe and anvil. Seeing these tools, all glistening like new, reminded me of why I’d liked this place so much on my first and only visit a few months earlier: despite knowing nothing about jewelry or the jewelry business, a mere cursory glance at the items displayed had told me that Tim was a genuine craftsman, one who shared certain of my sensibilities. At the time, this had meant very much to me. It meant more to me now. The ring I hoped to buy would be the first I’d worn since I removed my wedding band a decade earlier, and too important a piece to purchase from a chain store, or over the internet. I’d come to the right place. The Sinatra wafting through air confirmed it.
After three or four minutes of browsing, I heard Tim counting back change, then the sound of sleigh bells as his customer departed. I headed for the counter where the jeweler, a gentle, studious type in wire-rimmed glasses, stood smiling. He offered the same greeting as the first time I met him, the same beautiful phrase with which I’m sure he greets all his customers.
“And how can I make your day better?” he asked.
I smiled back at him. “You just did, my friend. You just did.”
Standing at the counter, I showed Tim a picture I’d found online of the type of ring I wanted, a medium-width stainless steel band with black satin finish and pipe-cut edges. “I really like this style,” I said, and asked if he could order me something similar and engrave its inside.
“I can certainly help you,” he said. “But you should know that all of my engraving is done by hand. The upside is that it’s deeper than you find with a laser.” He tapped the picture with an index finger. “The downside is that I can’t engrave stainless. I mostly work with gold, silver, platinum, sometimes palladium.”
“I see.”
“Is this a wedding band?”
“No,” I said, and felt the awkward silence that had fallen where he’d expected me to elaborate. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him it was a mourning ring, for I worried that he’d offer condolences, at which point I’d need to explain the situation just to not feel like I was misleading the man. Wishing to avoid that whole convoluted mess, I kept quiet. The purpose of this ring was not to draw attention to my grief, but to quantify the unquantifiable, to give the grief form so that I might wear it instead of keeping it inside. I was trying to heal, and I wanted privacy, hence my reason for placing the inscription on the inside of the ring instead of the outside.
“Let’s take a look at my website and see what we can find,” said Tim, keeping the conversation moving. He turned his laptop around to face me and with a few quick clicks, located several silver bands in my price range. I pointed to one whose shape and width closely resembled those of the ring I’d found online. “Is it possible to get that in black?”
“What I’d do in this case is turn it black,” said Tim. He went on to explain the chemical treatment he could perform on the ring to change its color. “It works beautifully, but with one caveat: the black will fade with time. After a couple of years, you’ll need to have the ring re-treated. Or you can stick it in a Ziploc bag for a day or two with a couple hardboiled eggs. Accomplishes the same thing.”
I laughed out loud. “Really?”
“Oh yeah, the silver absorbs the sulfur in the eggs. Works like a charm.”
Silently, I contemplated the beautiful symbolism of having my mourning ring fade with the passage of time. Hope, or something like it, began to stir inside of me. Maybe I would never need the color restored. Maybe by the time it returned to its natural silver, I wouldn’t need the ring at all. Maybe I could slide that silver ring from my finger and drop it in the ocean or heave it from a mountaintop and never think of it again. Maybe, maybe, maybe…
“Let me get your information,” I heard Tim say. He reached for an order form and took my name and number. “The ring should be here in a week or ten days, at which point I’ll call you and have you come in to double-check the size. Then I’ll do the treatment and engraving.” The jeweler slid a small sheet of paper across the counter and handed me a pen. “And speaking of engraving,” he said, “would you please jot down what you’d like to have?”
“Sure,” I said, and then slowly, deliberately, I wrote my children’s names.
