Ode on an Engagement Ring

Today David and I went downtown to see my ring get cast. It goes like this:

The wiry ring man puts flakes of gold with a something-or-other alloy that makes it white gold, melts it with a torch, mixes it together and spins it around in this wheel thing until all the metal gets sucked into the ring cast. He dips it in stuff that makes the cast dissolve and then, after pounding it and washing it and rubbing and polishing it, he places it in my hand, a warm circle of dull gold, with a gaping mouth where the diamond will be, and I realize something: I will wear this ring on my finger every single day of my life until I die.

We walk out, leaving the ring behind to have its stones placed — a tiny sapphire and a glittering carat of cubic zirconium — and as we walk David takes my hand, and I realize another something: I will share the rest of my life, and much longer, with this man. We have thrown ourselves giddily together, our good bits and less-good bits — which aren't pure and great, but like the alloy, still make us what we are — and we are melting into each other and life will spin us around until we shoot off into the mold of whatever is we will become; together.

These days I don't know anything but love.