The Hope Diamond

This rock is old, a lump of carbon pressed together for millennia with a blue mineral called boron. Dug from the ground in India in the 17th century, it was once nearly three times larger, but no one could afford a diamond that big. It was carved into a 44-carat round, faceted marvel in the 18th century. Once owned by Louis Quatorze and passed down to be worn by Marie Antoinette, the diamond is the color of a midnight summer sky, Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes, the deep Sargasso Sea, a calm calving glacier. Shine an ultraviolet light on it, and the diamond glows, bold blood-red. Now it sits, encircled in white diamonds on a diamond-crusted chain, on a blue velvet perch in a big glass case in a large museum in an Eastern city. To see it, you must wait in line behind hundreds of curious folks who got there before you. You will have a few seconds to take in its grandeur before a uniformed guard ushers you away. In those seconds, imagine hefting the necklace, opening its strong clasp, placing it around your neck and wearing it while you burp the baby or vacuum the carpet or load the dishwasher. Isn’t it splendid? Doesn’t it convert the most quotidian task into an act of significance? Don’t you wish you could keep it? Alas, here in the museum the diamond must remain, far from human toil and triumph, never again to grace the slender neck of an heiress or a queen.