My High School Ring Robert Frost once wrote, “Nothing gold can stay.” In the spirit of school spirit, I decided to attend my high school reunion for the very first time. This was not number 10, 15, or even 20. This was an all-class reunion. Held every year the day after Thanksgiving, it’s a chance for alumni to drown, or celebrate, their holiday weekend at a local watering hole rather than the shopping mall. I was there on a dare. I dared myself to go. “How bad can it be?” I asked my husband as we walked through the door. The first thing I noticed was the couple playing darts with only one dart. According to the waitress, the other darts were stolen at some point and never replaced. Next, I ordered a mojito, but the bartender had apparently never learned how to muddle mint, so I chose a glass of cheap wine instead. As I sat there sipping my pseudo Chablis, the missing darts reminded of my high school ring, which I lost during a move many years ago. I loved that ring, although it had become too small for my finger. Do we ever again look like we did in those school pictures? I kept it in a box, the gold ring with my year of graduation inscribed alongside the blue stone for the school color. Since I could not wear it, I forgot about the ring, like so many other things we put in a box for later – like my high school memories, both bittersweet and enduring. In Home Economics class, I sewed a lopsided skirt and learned to cook spaghetti. My French teacher inspired us with dreams of moving to Paris. More importantly, it was during those years that I decided to become a writer and change the world. At this writing, my high school is being torn down in favor of a new, more modern building. Gone is the gym where pep rallies enthusiastically took place on Fridays before the big game. Gone is the cafeteria, where relationships were navigated instead of the food on our trays. Various graduates valiantly fought for years to keep that school building standing, but inevitably, it is giving way to bulldozers and progress. “There goes B Hall,” one woman remarked, as we stood outside and snapped photos of the demolition. While the walls came tumbling down, we once again were instructed that nothing stays the same. Back at the class reunion, there were no name tags, no “Class of…” signs, like a disorganized first day of school. Halfway through my glass of wine, the fire department unexpectedly showed up. We rushed out before we knew why, but fear was soon replaced by laughter as I remembered the day in high school when some jokesters pulled the fire alarm. Once outside, out of the corner of my eye, I spied the same group of girls on the patio smoking. Some people never change, and life is not a textbook, but we’re never too old to learn. Recently, I proudly attended my son’s graduation. Before the strains of “Pomp and Circumstance” began, I thought about my own graduation and my high school ring. Memories, whether new or old, are more precious than gold.
Sarah Rivera is a freelance writer who lives in Atlanta, Georgia. She relies heavily on chocolate and a sense of humor.