Because these diamonds aren't exactly "legal," they lack the id tag that any diamond you would buy nowadays would be laser-cut into it. The one that went to Andrew's father had an old-fashioned rose cut, one that's not used (or even legal) these days because it can hide imperfections (which is advantageous for a diamond that, though hand-selected, wasn't exactly scrutinized before she took it). Andrew's father gave it to Andrew's mother when he proposed, and even after they divorced, she kept the ring on the condition that when Andrew was ready to marry, he would get the diamond.
This is the story as I know it. I may have half the facts wrong (the story changes with each re-telling) but it's the story that is why I find this particular diamond to be irreplaceable. Its history has spanned generations and continents, it has been destined for the love of Andrew's life since he was still in his cradle.
When he and I were dating, we stopped into a jewelry shop in our neighborhood at the time and looked at rings. It was a family-owned shop, and as we perused various styles, one of the sisters who owned the shop was keeping notes about all the things I liked and didn't like. When Andrew came back, weeks later, with his diamond in-hand, he and she designed a ring around it based on everything they knew about me.
On a warm summer's evening on June 8, 2007, Andrew proposed and slipped the ring onto my finger for the first time. We were in a spot looking out over the NY harbor and the lighting wasn't very good, so I didn't even really see the ring until moments later when we had moved into better lighting.
It was perfect in every way.
I've proudly worn the ring ever since, with the diamond and its history becoming a part of me, and I a part of its history. At first I was terrified--what if something happened to it? What if I lost it or damaged it or it was stolen from me? Our jeweler assured me that the safest place for the diamond is on my finger, and that's where it has been for the last six-and-a-half years. I can't wear jewelry when I sleep, so each night, I would give the ring to Andrew for safe-keeping, and each morning, he would give the ring back to me. It's a little tradition that I cherish, just as over the years I've cherished the ring, and the diamond, more and more.
Tonight, while we were sitting on the couch, just before we were going to go to bed, I looked down at my hand and saw a hole where the diamond is supposed to be. We tore apart the apartment, called the bar where I was certain I had seen it last, and even traced my entire route home from the subway. Perhaps it is somewhere in the West 4th station, or down a drain from when I washed my hands, or kicked to the side of the road like a broken piece of glass. I don't know where my diamond is, but it is not with me, and it is not on my finger. And I'm only just starting to accept the possibility that I will never see it again. I am crushed. We may buy a new diamond, but this one can never be replaced.
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