I took off my wedding ring.
I felt like the time had come. It felt like something that no longer encouraged me; it felt like a memory. It felt like the last thread of something I was holding on to, carrying it just for the sake of carrying it.
It felt like a lie. It felt like pretending, like I was playing a role.
I took it off, polished it, and put it away.
Then I got it back out.
Then I put it away.
And I got it back out again.
I haven't been without it for 12 years. There is an indentation on the ring finger of my left hand. Common health lore says the cells of the human body are completely regenerated every seven years. If this is so, then this ring has been on my finger longer than the finger has been on my hand. The flesh has given way in the last many years, sure this fixture was here to stay. I wonder how long the line will remain, like a reserved seat.
It's a trio of gifts tied into one:
the day he asked me to marry him,
the day we said 'I do,'
the decade's anniversary of thousands of every days.
And it's just so beautiful, especially after the gentle polishing.
It's one of the most beautiful gifts Robb ever gave me. It is the token of our vows, the memory of our marriage. But on a new finger, it no longer means I am married.
I decided to put it back on: on my right hand, this time. It looks lovely there.
Perhaps I'll put a different ring on my left hand. Maybe I'll buy myself a new one. For now, it feels best to let it breathe for a while. It's another absence to accept.