Beneath the Crust

I am six years old, and sitting on the edge of the counter watching my mom make breakfast. I remember watching the brilliant glare of my mom’s engagement ring dance across the walls. The beauty of the bright reflection was no match for the plain brown walls, wherever it went my curious eyes followed. Before I had wondered how such a petite rock, no bigger than a pea, could be such a prize, but sitting there it was clear why. I had never seen anything sparkle like that before.

I am 10, almost 11 years old, and doodling while Mrs. Kaciban lectures us about the crust being thin and brittle. “Only good for growing crops,” she had said. My own thoughts about dinner and sports consumed my mind until something finally pushed its way through the thick web. “That’s right, diamonds are made beneath the crust, by being crushed under intense pressure and extreme heats.” My mind swarmed with the new information. Why does everyone want them if they just come from the dirt?

I am 16 years old, and watching my own diamond necklace shimmer in the golden light of my bedroom. The glare is just as beautiful as I remember, but something else hangs at the back of my mind. Then I remember Mrs. Kaciban’s words and the diamond seems almost clearer than before. I put it back into the velvet case and snap it shut, but not too gently so as not to insult it. If only I had a quarter of the strength of a diamond.