With This Ring….

… I thee wed, to have and to hold, from this day forward….  ‘til death do us part.

 I am now beginning to look at my wedding ring, which is still on my left hand, after exactly five months today of being a widow, and am in a quandary over what to do. So what now?  Just take it off and put it in my jewelry drawer? This ring, which I have never taken off except when mixing raw, ground meat with my hands?  This ring, which made me, feel protected? This ring that made me feel loved and honored?  This ring that stood for my steadfast commitment and fidelity “ ‘til death do us part”? This ring, which I spin around with my thumb on cold days?   This ring, which symbolized to me all that it was meant to symbolize?  This step is a tough one for me……. a first that I am dragging my feet towards.  Removing this symbol of my covenant with Michael is much harder than simply slipping a ring off of my finger.  I loved our set of rings.  They were so “us”.  He chose Italian gold, of course, 18 karat gold instead of 14, with texture and design…not just smooth bands with a diamond solitaire sitting on top.  (Not that there is anything wrong with those kinds of wedding rings, it was just not us.)

When I was told about Michael’s accident, I did not want to believe it was him in that car who had died until they brought me back his wedding ring and his Italian gold crucifix necklace, both of which he never took off…then I would know.  I am wearing both now around my neck.   I know there are all kinds of options that I can do with the rings, like wear them on my right hand and put a different ring on my wedding finger, or make them into a necklace of some creative kind, but then it becomes a new symbol all together.  A symbol of the past, something that used to be, something to be remembered – not something to live by daily.  It could also be a symbol of hope in all things good.  It was a good marriage, a solid marriage, a marriage based on godly principles, a marriage that defied mainstream and did not become a divorce statistic, a marriage that stood for something, a marriage that withstood the storms. I don't know if there will ever be the perfect time to remove it from my finger.  One day soon, I will probably just need to do it without putting any more thought into it, just dive in and get it over with.  (I tried this method this past week when it was time to pick figs from our fig trees.  Michael ordered and planted the trees because he loved them. It was a nod to his Italian heritage and his childhood memories of his Papaw.  Michael picked the figs during harvest season and would pop a few in his mouth on his way back to the kitchen, then would enter commenting on their beauty and perfection. I decided to just grab a bowl after dinner and march outside to get all of the bright, purply red fruit from the tree. No pomp and circumstance, just go do it.  With every fig I removed from the tree, I was thinking,"I can do this. I can do this." It did not really work.  Tears were still in the rim of my eyes and there was no joy or beauty in the moment that should be present in the harvesting of something you grew yourself. Making the fig tarts would not be the same without Michael drooling over their beauty and flavor.  My sister Julie is going to make the tarts for me this year.  So much for the idea of just sucking it up and doing it.) 

No, I think I will need to do it in a calm moment of solitude in my bedroom.  I will probably remove it, admire it, remember his proposal, kiss it, and put it safely in the original ring box until I can decide how I want to wear it again, in a new, creative and thoughtful way. 

With this ring, we became one… for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, and in health.  Our wedding vows were more than mere words to recite.  They were promises we meant to keep, and we did.