The Cameo

I live in a box. Small and compact. A moulded, cream plastic box with a hinged lid, easy to open. My box is lined with scarlet velvet and, today, I rest in a little slit, quite comfortably but sad. Together, we live on top of a dressing table. We have shared our lives, our happiness and sadness and now all we share are our memories. We have been companions for many years. Who am I? I am a 57 year old gold cameo ring.

I was given to her for her fifteenth birthday. How delighted she was receiving a small gift wrapped box. She eagerly tore open the paper and looked at the box. She knew that a ring would be resting within. Her excitement grew. She quickly opened the lid and slipped me on her slender finger. I fitted so sleekly, so snugly, I knew we were made for each other. She was delighted with my delicacy. In her eyes, I was loveliness and classical elegance. I was perfection!

I stayed on her finger for the rest of the day, returning to my box only when sleep could not be ignored. I had a wonderful day. I was admired by her friends and family. But most of all I was admired by her. I had found a home on youthful fingers. Her skin was like peaches and cream and her pink polished nails matched the hue of my exquisitely carved cameo. She had always admired cameos especially the broach, a much loved grandma wore. She and her grandma loved the realistic carving of the lady’s features, her ringlet hair and her overall daintiness.

We travelled everywhere together. Whenever she went to dances, to picnics, to friend’s houses, I was there. We had wonderful times together. I can even remember her 21^st birthday. She made a blue checked dress and bought the latest fashion shoes to wear. We looked divine together. We danced and sang all evening. What a great evening that was! I remember it well as she accidentally covered me with birthday cake and then proceeded to lick my meringue covered surface. How we laughed! It was such fun that evening. I slept well that night in my box.

I was there when she met him. She was invited to her cousin’s birthday party. She was wearing her 21^st birthday clothes. It was a night that I will always remember. ‘That’s a pretty ring.’ he said when he asked her to dance. When he commented on my prettiness, I knew our fate was sealed. ‘What kind of ring is it?’ he asked. He looked at me closely and said he was much taken by my beauty. I am sure my being there, gave him the courage to ask us again to dance. She smiled at him as she stood up. Dance after dance, we swirled around the floor, quite enchanted with the moment. That night, I could hardly wait to be placed in my box to tell every detail of the evening events. This was such exciting time!

The three of us dated for a couple of years until he felt brave enough to ask her to marry him. A diamond ring sparkled brilliantly at me from the other hand but I knew I was still loved and wanted. We were inseparable. Proud of her loveliness as a bride, I felt very honoured to walk with her, down the aisle. I was always with her in those early days. I was her treasure. She was my jewel.

As children arrived, most of her time was taken up with them. There were fewer outings and I spent long periods of time in my little box. I didn’t mind as I always knew the position that my box and I held in her heart. We were contented to watch the family grow. On those occasional cherished outings, I felt as if I would burst with pride as she placed me on her finger. I was remembered. I had not lost my charm or lure.

As her children grew, they liked to play with me and my box. They loved to open and close the lid and to feel the soft smooth lining. They liked to swing or twirl me around on their little fingers. Her children took every opportunity to play with us when she was not around. Sometimes fights would erupt over us. Fearing that the children may damage or lose us, we were hidden in the back of a cupboard. I was devastated and lonely for her company. My box and I were left to commiserate with one another and left for some time with only our memories.

As time went by and the children had grown, she remembered me and my box. How delighted we were! We resumed our rightful position on the dressing table. We were needed once more. We were part of her life again. As she placed me on her finger, she realised that her hands had changed. Hands now wrinkled and coloured with age. She wondered how I would react. But I didn’t care as I, too, had faded with age. We went to the theatre, the ballet and concerts. Sometimes she subconsciously twisted me around her finger and I felt an overwhelming joy.

One evening, as she was preparing to go out, she placed me lovingly on her finger. As she was completing her dressing, I brushed against her woollen dress and broke one of my claws. I didn’t go out that evening. She placed me in the box on the dressing table and there I remain. Broken. Sadness and grief are with me. My box understands my longing to be part of her life again and tries to console me.