I don't know why I am still wearing you. I really don't. I look down at you there on my finger, the finger where you've been for these past several years, and I think to myself that I should take you off.
You were only $15. You're a miserable looking little thing. White gold with a channel for tiny, almost microscopic, diamonds. There's plenty of room around, under, and between the tiny chips of shiny substance to carry around plenty of life's dirt and junk. When I slide you off, you scrape over my knuckle in a familiar sort of way, and I see the thin band of silvery filament that is bent and warped, too fragile for the clumsy likes of me.
I only bought you because Storm and I could never decide on the ring we wanted, and we never had the money the few times we did. I wanted the world to know that I was Mrs. Rose Treasure, and I resolved to find SOMETHING. Finally, I saw you on that discount site and figured, what the heck? Storm made fun of me, and you, when you arrived, though he didn't realize he hurt my feelings. I never really told him, but I think he figured it out. He let it go, and I decided to do the same. I didn't take you off, in spite of his ridicule.
The first time I put you on, you felt strangely comforting, though a little bit sharp. You looked humble and strangely right, sitting there on that old familiar ring finger, and I quickly became accustomed to righting you back to diamonds up with my thumb, since you always seem so determined to be upside down.
I wasn't wearing you when Storm died. We had finally bought other rings, and you had begun to cut into my finger in an uncomfortable way. I wasn't wearing a ring at all. The other rings disappeared, stolen, I'm sure, by dishonest people. I thought you were gone, too, until I was ready to move. I slid open a drawer, and there you were, crooked and tiny.
So I put you back on. I put you on and I was satisfied. The groove you had created never really faded, anyway, so you settled right back where our two parts become one. I didn't really consider at that moment how long I would wear you, I just knew that I wanted to, and that was enough.
A few months later, I still see you sitting there, glimmering dully up at me. I pass each month anniversary, the flipping calendar going thunk-click like an old fashioned clock in my head on each "13th," and I think to myself, "How long will I wear it?" I sometimes even take you off, and consider that strange looking, grooved and naked finger. The answer is, "I don't know." I slide you back on, satisfied as you bump over my knuckle.
It's not that I want people to think I'm married. In fact, I don't care what they think. I'm not wearing you because of anyone but me. You're mine, somehow a part of me. I've been married three times, but I never really understood wife-ing, or marriage, or deep, lasting love until I knew Storm. He loved me in a committed, overwhelming, life-swallowing way, and being his wife was the most important thing I could do in my life. I never really understood wearing a ring, a marker of someone's claim on my life, until him.
My head doesn't understand it. My head wants to find a quiet retreat, a solemn and natural place, and make a small ceremony of taking it off, as if that would make it better, faster. My heart doesn't think that will work. My heart still wants it there, with the diamonds pressing against the inside of my palm, where my thumb expertly seeks to spin it back round.
"When will I take it off?" My head asks my heart. My heart doesn't want to answer. My heart often doesn't pay any attention to my head. We're all ok with that. My heart is broken. My head will have it's turn again, soon enough.
I know that I will take you off. I have to. Someday. My head knows this, and gently reminds my heart. It's fraudulent, in a way, since I am not really married now at all. A lie, of sorts, which I hate. My heart ignores. I look down and see you there, think maybe I should clean you, but I don't, and I am satisfied.
My heart knows the answer. It just doesn't want to answer, because it's no answer. The answer is some distant someday. Someday, I will not feel like the Mrs. is missing from my name every time I say it. Someday, I expect I will look down and see you, little ring, and not feel so satisfied. Maybe I will feel like you don't belong. Maybe you will feel constrictive and unnecessary. Someday I might wonder what I ever found so satisfying.
I will take you off, little silver band, when I no longer feel like his wife. For now I see you there, and I am satisfied. That will be enough.
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