The Ring

discarding the things that once held us together

When we were first dating, when we were long distance and all we had were promises, we bought each other rings. They were simple, ten dollar rings, silver with inlays, and they were our way of devoting ourselves to each other, a symbol of unity, of what was to come. We mailed them to each other and we wore them with love and care.

That was fourteen years ago. Almost eight years ago, those little trinkets were replaced with wedding rings. Still silver, a bit more expensive, but again a symbol of our unity, our devotion and love for each other.

I took my ring off about five minutes ago. The only other time the ring came off in the seven plus years we were married was when I was cooking something that involved mixing by hand. Otherwise that ring stayed where it was, and I would glance at it every so often and smile and think about how lucky I was. Now my finger is bare exception for a little indentation that will disappear soon enough.

I didn’t really want to take it off. it’s only been six days since he left and I still cling to the hope that this was all a terrible mistake and he’ll want to come back. But continuing to wear it while he settles into a new apartment and a life without me makes me feel like an imposter, that I am playing at pretend. Pretend you’re still together. Pretend he’s coming back. Pretend that ring means something anymore.

There are symbols scattered throughout our relationship, some obvious, some subtle and quiet. I was big on these things, on marking anniversaries and occasions with tokens and trinkets that would serve to mean something, to act as a physical expression in lieu of something verbal. We communicated our feelings through these symbols, instead of actually looking each other in the eye and saying the words they represented.

We wrote our own vows, flowery prose declaring our undying love, devotion, unity. But when it came time to actually say the words, we both demurred to the officiant, who recited the usual, and we tucked the papers with our thoughtful vows away, only to read them to each other later that night in the hotel room. It was the way we were, always leaving it to symbols and tokens and written word, rarely letting our voiced feelings hang between us.

The wedding ring meant so much to me. It was the ultimate souvenir of a well worn relationship. It contained everything, every word I wanted to say, everything I felt, every moment leading up to our last lived moment together. I put great stock in it, great faith that as long as I was wearing that ring, everything was ok.

And now I’m not wearing it anymore. I can’t bear to look at it there on my finger, in a place of honor on my hand. I wear no other rings, not even an engagement diamond. There was just that, just my intricate silver band standing in for words and promises and vows I thought we’d keep. That ring was proof; proof of life inside my heart, proof of love, proof of rising above everything bad that came before and feeling safe and secure in the world we made together. Taking the ring off was to ceremoniously extract all those things from my life and there was a sharp intake of breath when it slid from my finger. This was my acknowledgment of everything that transpired, this was my disbelief being sharpened and honed into knife that cut through me as it turned to belief. This was my head clearing, my soul aching, my cry out into the wild.

Everything we stood for, everything we promised each other was contained in that piece of silver. I wore it for seven years, but it carried fourteen years with it. The ring carried the weight of all that time within it and now that I am suddenly free of that time, now that my hand is bare, I don’t know what to do with the emptiness, in both heart and hand.