an essay by Christiana Malizia
With this money, I could purchase a Samsung 27.4 foot side-by-side refrigerator in fingerprint resistant stainless steel, and still have $7 to spare. I could decorate the garden I don’t have with roughly 72 garden gnomes (hoping there is no tax, of course). I could also purchase 3 pygmy goats, because even though I could afford 3.5, what would one do with half of a pygmy goat? These are just some tempting options from the large plethora of things that I could purchase if I did have this money, but unfortunately, I don’t. Over the course of a year and a half, a mere 18 months, $1265 is the estimated cost of the rings I have lost. Yes. Rings. Simple sterling silver bands that wrap tightly around my fingers. Or, loosely, depending on how you view the situation.
Rings have slipped off my fingers into sock drawers and found refuge in the bottoms of pillow cases. They’ve fallen through wooden cracks between the boards of decks, been flushed down toilets, and ended up coated in ice cream and grease in a sloppy ice-cream shop garbage can. Sometimes their locations are unknown to me, or they are just out of the reach of my anxious fingers, waiting eagerly to feel the cool hug of the silver once more.
I grew up in a household that lacked any sense of patience whatsoever. Agitation and frustration rooted deeply, coursing through my veins like blood. Initially, tears would fill my eyes as the horrible realization hits me: I am missing a ring, panic following shortly after. Tearing apart the bed, dumping out laundry baskets, and scouring denim pockets of dirty jeans. But the ring isn’t hiding anywhere. Wiping tears from my eyes, admitting to the fact that it’s gone. Every time, I am forced to continue my day without the ring because life goes on. And the world isn’t going to wait for me to find a meaningless silver lining that I somehow managed to lose.
But sometimes, hours, days, or weeks later, the ring makes its way back to me. It’ll fall directly into my lap out of the laundry machine, or it’ll be caught hiding in the pocket of a coat I haven’t worn recently. And even though I didn’t realize I was looking for it, I wasn’t truly surprised when I had the ring once more.
I never really stop looking for a ring once it’s lost. While cleaning up toys off the floor, or chasing the dog, my eyes still scan the ground for silver. Never abandoning them, never giving up on the notion that we’ll be reunited. Part of me holds onto this hope because those rings want to be found. They need to be seen; they need to be saved. Because a lifetime spent hiding in a sock drawer is a waste of potential, and if they aren’t rescued, they are doomed to a fate they cannot control.
While I can accept the occasional loss of a ring, I will not accept other things. I don’t want to let myself live in a drawer: a waste of potential, a beautiful set of stones shining in the dark. So, when it hurts, and I’m tired, I continue to push myself. Constant emails, late nights, long shifts, empty pens, pained wrists. Tear stained papers crumpled and thrown away. For a short explanation from a teacher, the mock trial victory, the acceptance letters, the poetry I can finally be proud of. Harder, faster, longer, until the purple of dawn kisses the tips of my curtains, until the steam has run out.
When the clock hits 6 AM, and I don’t think I can do it again, I remind myself what I’m doing it for: I want my $1265 back. Every last penny. And no matter what it takes to get there, I will find all of my rings.