I gave a girl a diamond ring.
My mother had given it to me; it was her engagement ring; just a small stone set in a gold band.
The girl loved it, and never took it off.
One day, she called me up, crying. She explained that the diamond had come loose from the ring, and she couldn’t find it; she was working in a restaurant; I asked her if she could remember the last place she was before she noticed the stone was missing. She was sobbing so hard that I could barely make out her saying;
“I. Was. Getting. Ice. From. The ice maker.”
A tiny diamond in a huge ice bin.
Easier to find a needle in a haystack.
I went to the restaurant.
By the time I got there, every employee was frantically searching all over the kitchen, trying to find her diamond, several pouring through the ice bin. After trying to calm the girl down, to no avail, I started looking around.
I found the stone in a tiny crack in the kitchen floor in about five seconds.
She threw her arms around me; all of the women (and some of the men) were crying; the manager of the store said;
“You do realise that this means you were meant to be together.”
“It was sheer luck, finding that diamond.”
“Forget the diamond. You’re lucky you found that girl.”
She knew that I don’t wear jewelry; but on my birthday she gave me a necklace. It was made by an Irish woman who never made the same piece more than once; on a chain made from Irish silver, with a small oval-shaped pendant, also native silver; the design on the pendant was a double spiral, done in a sort of “hunt-and-peck” style. It was very unique, very beautiful, and I wore it every day.
One day, the chain broke.
I caught the pendant before it hit the ground.
The girl never wore the diamond ring again after the incident at the restaurant; she took it home and put it in a jewelry box.
And I never wore the necklace again.
I took it home and put it in a jewelry box.
Right next to the diamond ring.