He was the dough, stuck between the diamonds on my wedding ring.
After I had lovingly cooked a much-desired meal for my husband, I saw him there.
I tried cleaning him out with the other pieces of dough that were stuck to my palms;
I ran them under the gush in the kitchen sink; scrubbed them off with some washing wool;
wiped them off with a bamboo hand towel; finally sat myself at the table.
Just as I broke the first piece of bread to feed my husband, I saw him, still there.
In all quickness I pulled my hand away, flipping the ring around to hide him on the underside. My troubled husband asked me if I felt alright; I said there’s just a little something stuck somewhere.
He says he’s sticking there and I am to blame; the dough was done, but I kept going at it because I thought I’d achieve another level of perfect; because I thought I needed to do a little something more; because I wanted to feel appreciated for the effort of working so hard; because I had nothing much to do that night other than go at the dough!
So I found my sterling silver safety pin and straightened it out; I warned him it would be ugly; that I’d flick him away like an unwanted piece of nothing, ’cause he skillfully hid, causing me the desperation of cleaning things up, but creating fond memories of how hard I had toiled and what beauty I had created in the bread that I served that night.
I poked and I pierced; I hurt myself. I was able to clear the sparkling emptiness between my diamonds.
My husband took my hand the other night, looking hard at the wedding ring. He said that I didn’t appreciate it and I didn’t know how to keep it clean.
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