The woman standing in front of me is regal and beautiful, even at middle age. After 28 years of marriage, her husband is leaving her. She mentions it quietly, ashamed of her newly single status. Her rings sit in front of me, resting top-down on the black velvet pad that I’ve just pulled out. The symbolism is staggering to me- funereal and final. I am about to melt the rings down, reforming the gold into a shape that is not a wedding band. There are a few small diamonds in the engagement ring, diamonds that carried her down a white-decked aisle so very many years ago. She has never asked for more than the simple sparkling stones on her hand, and never received any more. To these diamonds, I will add the birthstones of her two children, the only positive thing she’s taken away from her lifetime of commitment.
We settle on a design, I measure her finger, and she picks up her rings for one final look before they go under the torch. In this form- the form that she has looked at for nearly three decades- they mean nothing to her anymore. Her lip trembles and her eyes well up with tears. I can see from the lines on her face that she has been doing this for some time now, but she is still beautiful. Who knows why he left her? Who knows what oceans of distance or resentment built up between the two, or what career overrode their lives, or what other woman came onto the scene? It is not for me to ask, and I will only know if she tells me. I pat her hand, tell her it is going to be all right, slip her a tissue. Sometimes I wish that I could just hold my customers and let them cry onto my shoulder.
Later the same day a young couple comes in, eyes glowing with that ephemeral gloss of first love. They want wedding bands, custom ones, with a runic prayer that means very much to their story. But first- a question- can they have emeralds for wedding stones? Diamonds are so- colorless.
Of course they can have emeralds, I smile. I’m a fan of alternatives to diamonds. They look at each other again, some secret passing silently between their eyes, and then they hunker down to begin the design process. We draw up a lovely set of bands, complete with three of the verdant green stones in each design. This couple is unique, and so shall be their wedding rings. I measure their fingers, take their down payment, and wave them goodbye. The work envelope goes into the box on my desk, right near the envelope for the soon-to-be-divorced woman. I say a silent prayer that this couple will never endure the same pain of abandonment, that the rings I am about to carve will never feel the melting heat of the torch, that they will remain firmly in place for the next sixty years, and that those two young people will always look into each others eyes with that same secret passion.
My last customer of the day is an aging woman. She has lipstick feathering into the creases on her face, her hair is the stereotypical puffy white under a loose scarf, and her handbag could probably hold a small child. From this handbag she pulls an ancient jewelry box, scented of perfume and cigarettes and loneliness. With a hand trembling from age more than emotion, she snaps open the box and reverently withdraws a beautiful cameo brooch. It was her mother’s, she explains to me, and just as her mother wore it every Sunday to church, so she wears it every Sunday to Mass. My eyes, trained from years in this business, have already appraised the situation, but I have to wait until she finishes her story: ‘it broke, you see, and it was made to be worn as a pin or a pendant, you see, and a pin is too hard to put on at this age, so I bought a nice gold chain a few years back, you see, and now the top’s broken clean off and what am I to do?’
I am finally able to extract the item from her withered old hand. The cameo is bezel set, with that delicate fretwork around the edge that one seldom sees anymore. The bail had been soldered to the fretwork, and now an entire chunk has broken clean off, and there is no way of hanging the piece off a chain. To solder it back on would require remounting the cameo, since agate cannot take the heat of a torch. I smile grimly, once again wishing our store had thirty grand for a laser welder. Explaining the situation to the elderly lady, I remember to speak louder, enunciating each word. She nods in comprehension, winces at the price (all labor) and taps the counter gently as she ponders. Then, with a slow indrawn breath, she tells me to go ahead. She won’t have all of the money right away, but she wants it done. Its the only part of her mother that she has hung onto these past thirty years.
A few weeks later all three jobs are done. I have carved the waxes for the rings, Jason has cast them in the foundry, Emily has skillfully set the stones. The cameo has been removed from its mounting, the fretwork and bail soldered back into place, and the agate face reset, none the worse for wear. Kathryn phones the customers, smiling at the little coo of delight on the other end of the phone when she reaches the lovebirds. Soon they trickle in to pick up their finished work.
The now-divorced woman looks better today. Her hair has been cut and highlighted, and she has a fresh attitude. She tells me that she has been visiting friends more, has found a hobby that she loves, and is going to travel to places her husband never wanted to go. I slip the new ring out of its humble sack and hand it her. Her eyes widen with delight- she never knew her diamond could be so pretty with a ruby and a citrine on each side! And the fit- a tad loose, but maybe she has lost a bit of weight in the ensuing time. We can size it down without a problem. She is now a happier person, still somewhat mournful, but with the realization that some chapters in life come to an end. The next chapter in her own life will be adventurous and meaningful.
She admires the ring once more, then impulsively hugs me over the counter. I get that a lot. After paying her balance, she waves to everyone and leaves smiling. She’s going to be fine.
She barely has time to get through the door before a man comes bustling in, his eyes bloodshot, stubble on his face. We look warily at him, but then he explains to us that his wife has just delivered their first son. A child! He is so overcome with pride and emotion and, maybe, just a little bit of fear. He wants to purchase a ring for his wife, to surprise her, a ring with the birthstone of their child. We help him locate the perfect specimen and he leaves just as hastily as he comes in, the wrapped token in his coat pocket.
An hour later my old lady struggles with our glass door, breathing rather hard. She is delighted with the pendant, and puts it on its chain with shaking hands, refusing our help. She tells me that she has no daughter to pass it on to, as her mother did, so she will probably be buried with this pendant on. She waves away my cluck of disagreement with a firm hand, informing me that she is not long for this world. They usually know.
Finally, my young couple comes in, harried from frantic wedding planning. Our store has what I like to think of as a restful quality, and once inside, the girl begins to calm somewhat. But she is still nervous, I can tell, about her rings. I suppose that I would be too, spending a good chunk of my savings on rings that I’d never really seen. Once again, I slip the finished pieces out of the bag and hand them across the counter. The emeralds glint in the white gold, and the runic pattern is cut accurately and artfully. The girl emits a shriek of delight and the man stands staring down at her, a smile gently playing on his face. He loves the rings, too, but he loves them more because the woman he adores also loves them. That’s a good sign. They, too, are going to be ok. On the day of their wedding, they will recite the most important words ever to leave their mouths, while slipping these creations of ours onto their fingers. Those rings will stay there, through thick and thin, until death do them part. Today, our work has been important in so many chapters of peoples’ lives: birth, death, marriage, heartbreak. It is humbling. I watch the young couple try on their rings, then guiltily slip them off again. These must wait for the wedding day, but they cannot take their eyes off of them. Our work.
There could never be a better job than this.
