I found the ring of bone by the rim of the ocean, balanced on the wreckage of kelp and wood verdant with the opaque scents of brinish decay. Its center was round and musical: like a bell, it must have rung repeatedly as it spun through its submerged world, dappled with prims of light and scales. But before me now, a stationary instrument, it was quite silent.
It was the color of froth and ivory; drenched in gentle sepia and as pale as a ship’s sails billowing with the ocean’s nautical edicts. Cut by the whim of the sea and the fist of the tide, its outline was as crooked as the shorelines of continents. Its maritime alchemy was of salt, riggings as tangled as discarded corsets, drowned mists and the breath of fishes. Its core was a rosette, curling like the architectural heart of a flower. Polished by currents of sand, molded by the curving, relentless acres it came to an end on the rocks: broken and finished.
And there I found it – my accidental gift refined by the jeweler whose horizon extended into a silver oblivion. I placed it on my finger and I sensed the approval: in the salty breeze heavy with the voices of whales and seabirds; in the sounds of the pearls and scallops that tumbled through shrimp-pink grottos. I sensed their misty chorus: their pelagic blessing on my marriage to the sea.