There are a lot of rings in rivers. There, under a layer of silt and mud, a multitude of diamond rings gradually becoming covered with sludge and moss, growing dingier and more tarnished by the day. These rings were once worn and cherished by a host of good women. Or maybe they belonged to cruel women. Women with pure hearts and vicious tempers. Women with big smiles and twisted souls. Women who put supper on the table every night and mopped the floor every Saturday morning. Or perhaps she just sat on the couch, talking on the phone and eating bonbons. Maybe she had an agenda the whole time. But I would guarantee you, the rings in the water were loved. As were the men that gave them to the women who slung them. Their rings were never taken off till the day they were. But it’s not the diamond’s fault. The diamond had one job: to sparkle. At first I didn’t write about it because it was all I could do to get dressed and drag myself to work, forget about extracting words from the shredded pieces of my heart and telling the world my woes. Then I didn’t write because to write it made it real, and I didn’t want to see it in black and white. I didn’t want to see it at all. I wallowed in the land of delusion, where I didn’…
