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My father kept Granny’s diamond ring on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet in his bathroom next to a blue jar of anti-itching cream. I saw it through the glass shelf whenever I slid the cabinet open for toothpaste. The ring haunted me. It promised no shallow glitter of rhinestones. The sparkling diamonds were mysterious and inviting. The ring had a voice and the voice said, “Take my diamonds.” I resisted. I’d learned Thou Shalt Not Steal at school. One night I couldn’t resist—I climbed up on the bathroom counter and grabbed the ring. The gold was cool to the touch. Colors moved through the rows of diamonds. The rows reminded me of the pineapple fields on Moloka’i. It was a tapered ring where the diamonds started out smaller on either edge of the band but grew in size toward the middle. I decided a diamond or two would be a great addition to my stash of brass bullet casings, Indian Head nickels, and steel pennies minted during the war.

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