My mother bought me the sterling silver ring with a peace sign that has been the closest witness to my life’s events at a Seattle market in 2008. She got one for herself, though she never wore it much after that day. Mine, however, has formed an imprint on my right ring finger. A thin, burrowed mark resembling a race track wraps around. The ring has only ever left my finger on one occasion: the day I got surgery for a broken leg, approximately four hours. It promptly found its place back once I woke up from the anesthesia. How could it miss anything more?
The silver ring with a peace sign has seen many things, whether it wanted to or not. It accompanied me on a flight back from France as I quietly cried looking out over the clouds, its silver coating cuddled into my face as I hid tears from fellow passengers. It’s clung to the side of toilet bowls as I puke my guts out, the stench of tequila infiltrating the bathroom. It’s been twirled and lifted, on and off, as anxiety swims to the surface of my skin.
The ring has been with me at my worst. There is no doubt. As a peace symbol, it should offer a reminder to adhere to diplomatic standards. However, it’s seen me launch bottles and books across a room, cringing as they smashed against the wall. “Peaceful,” it whispered in an attempt to sink the notion into my soul through my finger it’s called home for over 10 years.