The Rings

Anthony Hammill

December 2023

You always laughed whenever  I held that cheap selfie stick which was stolen from Five Below. The same laugh as always: cheap and slightly horse; caught somewhere halfway between pitifully sardonic and playfully sarcastic. Of course, you’d let that same laugh out again, as when we were on the beach of Point Pleasant, a plastic bag blew on my face. Though, you’ll have to apologize for having stared at you that evening, but I saw you shrug a shoulder, maybe again, and let out a sigh. A sigh which was carried away by the wind, before dying. But why, oh why, I asked myself; why let out such a sigh that felt like it could defy moments of laughter we had on that beach, on that metaphorical twilight hours of the innocence we had, and love we felt for each other?

You looked me deep in the eye. Though rather shamefully, I didn’t look back. But I felt it. Did I ever mention to you how loud the AC on a car sounds when you have nothing to say? I suppose you probably didn’t, likely because the road noise of route 18 was too loud. I wonder, if like how we used to, when the night after we had our first kiss and hugged each other embarrassingly so, if you still count the exits that you rely upon to guide you back to home?

I remember that night vividly. Your room was glowing with your decorative lights, which you never liked to admit it but, I knew they were hand-me-downs from last Christmas. Though, before I could confront you that night, you unplugged them, and sat down next to me. I turned to ask you what was wrong, but before I could do so, I felt myself be taken aback by your kiss not of love, but of sorrow:

“I’m dying”, you whimpered. I knew that kiss could never tell a lie.

Forgive me, my sweet love, but I cannot shake the feeling I have become Judas Iscariot with every kiss I gave you from that night on. I wonder if you knew why I never said anything to you for the rest of that night. I held you, but not because I loved you, but because I was scared of losing something worth more than the diamonds of Botswana, and the gold of Egypt combined.

I made you something nice today. I’m not good at sculpting, but I enrolled in a course just for you. I want you to feel it. The coarseness of the stone, and the frailty of the dust and ash. Every minute detail of the arms of one another. I want you to feel warm when you feel the elegant dress of hers and be impressed by the dapper of the suit he’s wearing. I want you to embrace the hug, and think of it as a farewell, but of every time we smiled and kissed. Finally, my love, I want you to be taken back by the motions of their dance and let those motions carry you back to that day on the beach, and pretend a plastic bag is coming my way.

And I gave it to you, and you smiled. You placed the sculpture aside and pulled out a box. Not one, but two rings, laden with beautiful silver with an amethyst that glowed more elegantly than the stars of the darkest night. Without saying anything, you put on my finger, and one on yours, and you told me that when you held the hand of the doctor on your last breath, you’d look fondly at the stone, and know that I’ll be holding your hand too.