The Carbon Spot

This story is by Darla Clement and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

It dawns on me that my wedding ring, a gold band with a round-cut solitaire, is lost. The diamond is flawed, with a small carbon spot to the left. This darkened area proves that this ring is mine and mine alone. If another solitaire didn’t have that blemish, I’d know it wasn’t mine.

Ten years into our nuptials, I had a jeweler stretch it to accommodate my growing fingers. Again, at 15 years. After 20 years, I stopped wearing it. Is it missing? Have I merely overlooked it?

Allen and I were married 27 years when our daughter became engaged to the man of her dreams. He gave her a gigantic stone. She and I attended a weekend bridal show in Ft. Worth, Texas. But she was angry.

“Mom! You need to start wearing your ring!” Stephanie announced, hands on her hips. Her small stature of 5 feet and outraged expression reminded me of a child throwing a fit.

“Whatever for? Everybody knows your dad and I are married.”

“That man was hitting on you!” she fumed, her amber eyes glowering in frustration.

“What man? What are you talking about?”

“The man downstairs.”

“That guy who was talking to me? No, he wasn’t,” I chided. “What kind of guy would hit on a woman when she’s celebrating a wedding with her daughter?”

“Exactly my point,” she replies.

“Oh,” I said as realization struck. It was that afternoon when I realized my wedding band might be missing. It’s been misplaced many times, but it turns up like a wayward teen at lunchtime. It’s probably lounging in a box, entertaining itself with the costume jewelry.

“I need a new wedding ring,” I announce to my husband. He doesn’t glance up from his favorite recliner or respond, not even with the man grunt. He does what a field mouse does best when caught in the sights of a house cat; he stills and waits and doesn’t respond.

He won’t replace it, so I don’t have one. Has our devotion for the other withered? Did we toss it in a darkened drawer long ago? Did our vows vanish?

Maybe I misread the situation, I reflect in hopeful anticipation, so I wait. After a few months, I quit waiting to be surprised.

Determined to revitalize our passion, I shop. Online searches for platinum band solitaires. They are expensive. Yikes.

I decide that Allen needs help and call a friend. “Let’s run errands. I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes.” Bobbie and I view wedding sets through the glass case at Sam’s while the Salvation Army Santa clangs a bell for donations. The diamonds are too shiny. None have a dark spot to the left; they hurt my eyes. We make our way to the more tantalizing fruit section.

“Should we get a bottle of Cabernet and go to my house?” I ask.

Allen doesn’t bother with a new wedding band. He realizes it won’t bring in the hay and instead purchases a tractor.  It escapes my notice that he chose our future, something that will serve our family and the next generation rather than an inanimate object.

Is our relationship blemished from years of careless remarks? Did we damage our adoration through neglect, loss of interest, and time spent with daily tasks?

We’ve forsaken our chance at true love.

The hot summer morning in June matched my mood when I declared, “If you’re going to be that way, I’ll just wear a cheapy.”  The Texas heat shimmers around me as I march into TJ Max and make a purchase of $24.99. That’ll teach him. It’s huge and has a deep blue oval-shaped glass. It’s pretty.

Unlike my wedding ring, it gleams in flawless precision. The glass resembles a precious stone to the untrained eye. It’s a textbook oval and gets lots of attention, so I’m irrevocably attached.

People ask me if it’s moissanite. Usually, I can’t resist my secret, “Girl, it’s from TJ Max. It was under $25. Everyone knows I can’t be trusted with expensive jewelry, and I wouldn’t wish for one.”

But sometimes, I say “no” and am rewarded with an impressed gaze. Respect for me increases while my regard decreases. What does the size of the oval have to do with our friendship? But then I check myself. After all, it wasn’t that long ago that I placed more value on status than my beloved’s feelings.

I should locate my ring, I repeat, but then wash my hair or read a book. Later. My daughter will stumble upon the band in a drawer after I’m gone. But then I realized: She might not recognize it.

Three years later, we have grandchildren.

I breathed in the crisp autumn air when we took our grandchildren to our farm to visit the tractor. They clamor over the glossy green exterior while leaves of gold and rust fall around them. I’m amazed at their ability to scramble and climb like excited little monkeys.

Allen is the satisfied cat when they leap onto his lap to pretend they are driving.

That night, I sit with my four-year-old grandson on the couch.  He likes to play with my extra chin. “YaYa, can I play with your chin?” he asks.

“Sure,” I reply.

“It’s squishy.”

“Yes, it’s a fun chin,” I laugh as I fondly recall playing with my grandmother’s extra chin and floppy arms.

Gradually, without my notice, its importance fades at the joy marked with his grin.

If I imagine he places more value on farm equipment than on me, I believe in false wisdom. And I have a choice to search for the ring, but I’d rather look at new computers and fun software. Maybe browse couches at department stores. Or plan a trip.

It doesn’t matter if I have costly stones. And just so you know, I’ve never mislaid the glass ring. Hmm, wait a minute. Yes, I have. It’s been unaccounted for many times. It shows up in random places, in the cup cubby in my car, on the side table next to my chair, and sometimes, safely tucked with other rings; big and shiny, and too big to lose for long.

Instead of what I demanded, I have a man who drove three hours to Dallas to my favorite Apple store on Knox Street. We found a laptop computer with more quads and cores than I realized possible. The attendant confessed, “That’s way more than you need.”

My husband of many years glances at me with a reflective expression; his warm brown eyes gaze directly into mine. “You might decide to go back to making videos and doing photography. You could need more later and not have it.” His calloused hand give mine a squeeze. I rub against his muscled arm, giving him a little side boob in reward. An uncomfortable laugh escapes his lips.

He claims that I still get him “revved up” and never mentions my extra curves and folds.

A few months later, I say, “Guess what,” as he sits in his comfortable recliner while eating Southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy.

“What?”

“You don’t have to bother getting me a Christmas present. I got one.”

“Great,” he sighs. His shoulders visibly relax from releasing his great burden of present shopping. He doesn’t inquire about the cost. Slowly realizing his advantage, he contemplates his answer. He asks, “Will you clip my toenails later?”

“It’s my deepest desire,” I smile. That evening, I pull out the biggest nail clippers that we own, “I hope these suckers are sharp enough.”

“Hey! They’re not that bad.”

“Just kidding. Hand me those big, beautiful feet,” I reply.  I snip and clip.

“Is this what you pictured our life would become?” he asks me, his hand resting on my shoulder.

“It’s beyond my wildest imagination,” I answer somewhat sarcastically because I’m clipping the thickened toenails of an old guy.

He chuckles in agreement.

It’s our actions and insights that make a marriage. Every day is a reprieve, a chance for devotion. The simple gold band with a solitaire rock is someone else’s story of true love. It’s not our version, and it never has been.

Where is that ring? I ponder while drinking cocoa and listening to the cackle of the fireplace. The short winter day has faded into night. It’s immediately discovered. It was exactly where I predicted it would be: safely tucked in my bedroom, in a drawer, and in a case. “There you are, old friend.” I pull it out into the light of day, holding it high. It sparkles in greeting.

I no longer see the carbon spot. The light must be dim because my eyesight is as clear as it ever was.