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On Hand-Me-Down Diamonds

November 2, 2012

The first diamonds I owned that were not the tiny sparks of light attached to my wedding set was a set of earrings, studs to be precise. Well, honestly I can’t say they were a set, not in the way most people would visualize. They were mismatched and flawed, but they were mine; given to me by a then-boyfriend who found them wrapped in tinfoil in his drawer. I don’t remember if they were his ex-wive’s or his, but at the time it didn’t matter. No one had ever given me something like that before.

I wore them religiously. They were precious, like my relationship. Unfortunately, someone else’s leftover diamonds are usually a symbol of a lot of other left-over baggage. There was a promise ring that followed, but it came on the tail end of him cheating on me, giving me a (thankfully curable) STD and a lot of ugly fights. The relationship ended not long after that, when he tried to kill me by throwing me out a 13-story window.

Ironically, I still wore the diamonds for a long time after, until finally, one went missing. I sometimes felt weird about it, knowing where they came from. But I kept them because someone, at some point, felt I was worthy to have them.

The pair I own now are mine, paid for with my own money and chosen by me. They’re beautiful, but are sometimes still hollow to own because I fear that the only one who will ever buy me diamonds will continue to be me. I suppose that may not be entirely true. My ex-fiancée bought a several-thousand dollar engagement ring. I never saw it though. I ended the relationship before he ever gave it to me because he had been cheating while I was deployed. Some people’s children.

In my gut, I feel that my diamonds will always be just that: Mine. There’s nothing wrong with it, other than I feel resigned to it. I don’t want them just because, I want them because the right someone puts them on me.

Lord, am I nauseatingly romantic or what?

Until Next Time,

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