Damn. Says the lady with the metal allergy. Who doesn't wear jewelry except her wedding ring.

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There's nothing that says that the "you're" can't be another person.

Guest lecturer! Hooray!

I'm afraid it's a little trite, but it's the only piece of jewelry I wear regularly.

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“What’s that?”
“My necklace,” I wear it every day: normally, it’s tucked inside my shirt.
“Does it—ooooh. Can I see it?”
I take it off and put it around the child’s neck.
“You are responsible for making sure this gets back to me before lunch. Understand?” “Yes.”

“Miss Hobbs, it’s stuck.”
“Yeah, it does that. Watch. Pull the top and bottom open, then push the middle down, very gently, and it’ll pop open. If you try to force it, it’ll bend the wires.”
Teaching, it turns out, is all about finesse. And having jewelry the kids think is cool.

There’s been a minimum of 8 rings on my hands for a long time – at least 6 years, possibly more. Long enough to forget the beginning.

If one departs, another must be found. It doesn’t have to be the same finger, but the hands still have to balance out. Many hours have been spent over racks of silver jewelry, arranging and rearranging the rings on my fingers to find the proper space for another.

My hands would fly away without my rings, lacking the percussive music of the silvery weight on my fingers, counterpoint to many a gesture.

Nice one Lee. Someday, if you're very good, and eat all your wheaties, you'll be as good at this as Steph was.

Seriously, thanks to both of you. Even when I haven't had anything to say I've enjoyed the stuff everyone else has come up with and, Steph, you've come up with some amazing prompts. It's pretty awesome that your ideas have helped to keep the thread going so successfully. (I'm not sure that sounds the way I mean it to.)

Jewelry

On my left ring finger rests a slim band decorated with roses and leaves lightly carven in Black Hills gold. Around my neck, a goldstone dangles from a thin chain; matching earrings glint from my ears. Another necklace, a mustard seed floating in a bauble hangs from a shorter chain above. A ring from Israel slips around my right pinky finger.

I believe I will always cherish the wedding ring I’m pretty sure sits on my bedside table, but the others—from mother, father and sister—live on beautifully only in my mind, like my relationship with the givers.

There's nothing that says that the "you're" can't be another person.

And there's always fiction.

I bought it off ebay on a whim, and it came yesterday: a disc of un-hallmarked silver, its outward surface cast, with the correct detail of an anatomical drawing, in the image of a snail. Carefully represented blades of grass surround the animal, bending at its passage. Arcing around the circumference of the disc in the clear space above the snail is the word, ADAGIO.

My car used to bear a similar image, belying the obvious, meaning "S-car GO!" Now this medallion, hung from a simple chain to fall between my breasts, signifies the caught-in-amber feeling my life has, lately.

I think I'm really proud of this one, just by accident. And it's regulation length, ditto.
I’ve always worn rings on both my ring fingers, although when I got the second ring at eighteen, there was a moment of coy, girlish hesitation about whether I should consider the one on my left hand prime real estate, my Camelback Mountain, Inner Harbor, Nob Hill...For Husband’s Two Months’ Salary only. Until that moment, deciding which semi-precious stone to take off and consign to resizing or my jewelry box, I hadn’t considered that I had a groom slipping a band on my finger as even the remotest thought. But once I thought that, my hand looked different. “Wear them both,” my mother said. “Life’s too short.”

And there's always fiction.

Not with a statement like "the jewelry you're wearing". I mean, I am or I'm not. And I'm not and don't.

I could write about NOT wearing jewelry. That would be accurate.

Sure it could be fiction. The you doesn't have to refer to the writer. The you could be fictional. The jewelry could be fictional. It doesn't have to be real or accurate. I mean, I understand anyone choosing not take it as fictional, but there's no reason it couldn't be fiction, regardless of why you wouldn't write it.