What is it about pearls and diamonds that make a woman sing? What is it about their shine, their opulence, their classic beauty, that makes them an irreplaceable staple in the wardrobe of the high class? What is it about their architecture—their nuance and depth—that mesmerize, that anchor insincere relationships, that drive wedges into family wills and trusts?
Your grandmother had a beautiful five-carat diamond. She died and left it to your mother. It wasn’t flawless, but damn close. Grandma once told you she wrestled for her life when someone tried to mug her for it. You remember your mother winking at you as you nervously bit your lip, sitting cross-legged on the edge of that butterfly quilt. Wow, you thought. Grandma is so cool. She’s even scary. She can do anything.
Her ashes were spread in a rose garden beside the family farmland in Oklahoma. Mama told you: beautiful as ever—but make no mistake. Try to reach down deep and you’ll get cut by her thorns.
You never understood. You only knew Grandma as that seemingly invincible, majestic woman, with her diamond that Mama wanted. All you cared about was learning the story behind that butterfly quilt—every butterfly the same size, shade, and shape, flying in the same direction… except one.
Mama’s grandma—your great-grandmother—knitted it. She said it was a warning: “Don’t chase what can’t exist.”
But as Mama quoted this line time and time again, you watched the words fall out like she was carrying an armload of dishes and suddenly opened her arms wide—letting everything crash and scatter, shards sliding across the floor to your feet.
You married the man of your dreams. Mama gave him that five-carat diamond to propose. You had no idea. The day he slid it on your unpolished finger, you knew deep down your love could rise to any challenge.
On your wedding day, you held a bouquet of roses. Mama wanted everything absolutely perfect for you. You just wanted to marry your best friend. Your lover. Your man. You didn’t give a damn about the roses or diamonds.
You snuck away, sent him a message, and he met you halfway. Hand in hand you flew down the hill of the vineyard, grapevines stretching on like they’d never end. You made it all the way down to the spot—a little patch of fluffy grass smiling in the sunset, that ornate quilt covering the ground.
Breathless, you stepped out of your shoes and barefoot onto the quilt. You looked down to see that butterfly flying toward your feet, away from everyone else.
Your man grabbed your left hand and turned it palm-up, revealing to you a blank canvas.
The ring. Grandma’s ring. Where did it go?
He got down on one knee and poured his heart out, then opened a box to reveal a diamond ring—intricately designed, something like you’d never seen before.
When he started to speak, it was so soft you bowed to your knees, and the both of you sank, hand in hand, laying across that butterfly spread. Wiping a tear away from his cheek, he cradled your left hand—your skin soft, your nails a gorgeous and timeless red hue—and gently placed the ring on your finger as if you were made of porcelain.
Again, breathless.
You sharply exhale, look at the ring, then look into his hazel eyes.
It was flawless.
“I’m sorry today wasn’t perfect,” said your husband, “but I wanted our story to start with us.”
And suddenly, perfection felt like something you could finally set down.
“I’ve always thought I was chasing perfection,” you breathed. “I thought that’s what I had to do. Despite its proof of absence being irrevocably clear, I chased until my lungs gave out. Until my legs could no longer keep my pace. Until I no longer felt the ring on my finger. I’ve been chasing you.”
You take a deep breath, smoothing your thumbs over your husband’s knuckles, feeling the ebb and flow of his humanity.
“I don’t want perfection anymore,” you say, tucking a loose ringlet behind your ear.
“My life is already flawless.”
