Periwinkle Blue

Maya Rose Bater

“Name three things that must be present for love to exist.” We were sitting on the couch in my living room. “Trust, passion, communication,” I listed them off wearily, wondering how he would process this information. He nodded. “Okay. Now imagine them as three crystals floating in the air. Grab them, hold onto them, and give them to me.” I followed his instructions diligently and placed my imaginary crystals in his hand. He balled his hand up in a fist, mixing the crystals together, and when he showed me the palm of his hand, there he had formed a ring. A silver band with a light blue stone in the center. “It’s an opal,” he said. “I know how much you love opals.” 

It didn’t look like an opal. It was a periwinkle, baby blue stone that did not glimmer or sparkle in any way. The ring was a size nine and I am a size seven. There was a small chip on the side of the stone, barely noticeable but to the critical eye. I was thrilled. I grabbed it and put it on my first finger – the only finger on which it would fit – and threw my arms around him. He created the magic trick himself – what a sweetheart. “A ring is a promise,” he told me. “You will look at it every day and know that it came from me.” 

To be honest, I am not sure whether it is an opal or not. And I did not expect him to know my ring size by heart, and we are not the richest people in the world. It was the best he could do, and he looked very proud of himself for being able to successfully pick out something I liked from the ever-elusive closet of women’s fashion. I wear it every day; I pick it up when it falls off my finger. The little chip on the side gives it character. I wear it proudly knowing that he thought of me. He thinks of me. I have to trust that it is opal because he knew I liked opal. It does not shine or glimmer, but it reflects distorted images sometimes, like ripples on a pond. 

I wear a simple silver ring along with this special gift from my beloved. It is banged up and scratched and has a peculiar engraving on the inside that says NF 9. My mother received it from my father as a promise ring some time in 1997. My mother wears her official engagement ring: a beautiful gold band with three diamonds sitting snug together on her ring finger. Trust, passion, communication. It shines and glimmers in the sunlight. No matter the bickering or the griping, it does not stray from her hand. Sometimes she finds her husband’s sense of humor endearing; other times, annoying. But the ring is a promise fulfilled, the unbreakable chain. He will hug her even if she drives him crazy. He will stay with her when she is sad. He will provide for her even if he cannot provide for himself. And he will repay her for waiting so patiently while he works all day, neglecting her in the present for a happier future. I snuck into her jewelry box one day and put it on my digit and there it remained. My mother lets me wear it, and I thank her for it is a constant reminder that happiness is worth the wait.

My darling lives 800 miles away. I see him every couple of months or so, when one of us saves enough for a plane ticket. How is a ring supposed to satisfy? What embrace can this precious stone give me? It makes my heart ache like no other inanimate object can. I want to throw it away for it causes me such pain. But I cannot. It was from him, it was a promise from him. Happiness is worth the wait, I remind myself. I don’t want to throw it away. But the impatience boils in my blood! I want to throw it far, far away, I don’t want to throw it anywhere, I want to keep it close to me. I want to sew it to my skin so it never leaves me. I wish I had never received it at all so I would not miss it so much if it ever went away. It’s an opal, how could it not be an opal? It’s periwinkle blue, it’s beautiful and pretty, but it’s blue and sad. It is a bird that cries a melancholy tune.