Dear Gold Jewelry,
It’s not you, it’s me. I’ve never worn gold. O.K., not never—there was the high school class ring, lost before I started college and the studs every time I got my ears pierced professionally; but really, my choice is silver.
It’s not like I’ve been waiting for the gold market to go apeshit, like I’ve been rubbing my hands together in some Midas frenzy anticipating the rise in international gold prices as the world falls to hell and right-wing hate mongers preach the value of gold bullion.
Really, I was giving a bunch of shit away to charity, more crap than would fit in my car, so the charity van came to me. While I waited, I ransacked my closet and in the few minutes remaining I attacked my jewelry chest.
There you were, Bangle-of-unknown-origin, Early-courting-gift-broken-bracelet, Gold-and-pearl-necklace-from-Dad [ha-ha, eew], and Cracked-milky-opal-ring (another gift, wrapped up in a carbon copy repair receipt and tucked in a bag of tarot cards). You’ve been so lonely all of these years, stuffed in a crate, moving from storage unit to storage unit, finally landing in a rarely-opened drawer.
It’s only because the van was late that I went to the back of the drawer and found the velvet box with you Teeny-diamond-studs and Gold-hoops-with-teenier-diamond-chips. I didn’t even remember you. And you, Random-gold-cross-I-found-in-the-street, I can’t even recall where we met, it’s been so long.
Congratulations, you are all free now from your constricting shapes and your life of neglect. Go forth to the smelter and find a new life as an engagement ring, a gold chain for a Jersey Shore cast member, or heck, maybe even a tongue stud, or perhaps a more intimate piercing.
Really, anything is going to be more fun than the back of my jewelry box, and who knows, maybe you can be re-united with my long lost class ring (that should be worth an armful of chunky silver).
Please, don’t tell my Dad, he’ll be sad to know I sold his gifts. My sisters still wear theirs.
With only vague fondness,
Rubi

Dear Gold Jewelry,

It’s not you, it’s me. I’ve never worn gold. O.K., not never—there was the high school class ring, lost before I started college and the studs every time I got my ears pierced professionally; but really, my choice is silver.

It’s not like I’ve been waiting for the gold market to go apeshit, like I’ve been rubbing my hands together in some Midas frenzy anticipating the rise in international gold prices as the world falls to hell and right-wing hate mongers preach the value of gold bullion.

Really, I was giving a bunch of shit away to charity, more crap than would fit in my car, so the charity van came to me. While I waited, I ransacked my closet and in the few minutes remaining I attacked my jewelry chest.

There you were, Bangle-of-unknown-origin, Early-courting-gift-broken-bracelet, Gold-and-pearl-necklace-from-Dad [ha-ha, eew], and Cracked-milky-opal-ring (another gift, wrapped up in a carbon copy repair receipt and tucked in a bag of tarot cards). You’ve been so lonely all of these years, stuffed in a crate, moving from storage unit to storage unit, finally landing in a rarely-opened drawer.

It’s only because the van was late that I went to the back of the drawer and found the velvet box with you Teeny-diamond-studs and Gold-hoops-with-teenier-diamond-chips. I didn’t even remember you. And you, Random-gold-cross-I-found-in-the-street, I can’t even recall where we met, it’s been so long.

Congratulations, you are all free now from your constricting shapes and your life of neglect. Go forth to the smelter and find a new life as an engagement ring, a gold chain for a Jersey Shore cast member, or heck, maybe even a tongue stud, or perhaps a more intimate piercing.

Really, anything is going to be more fun than the back of my jewelry box, and who knows, maybe you can be re-united with my long lost class ring (that should be worth an armful of chunky silver).

Please, don’t tell my Dad, he’ll be sad to know I sold his gifts. My sisters still wear theirs.

With only vague fondness,

Rubi