Together again, our wedding rings

Wedding rings are meant to be worn.  Preferably on the fingers.

I have been wearing Eric's ring on my neck for months.  Feeling it against my skin brings me comfort.  I twirl it in my hand when I need an extra shot of courage. For months, I know the two rings would eventually come together.  

I never thought I would take off my wedding ring.  But today, I did just that.  I now wear his and mine, string together on a simple platinum necklace.  Together again, the bands.  

My ring finger feels naked.  It's missing the brave story.  My simple but beautiful band made a slight indentation on my finger.  I stare at my left hand; without the ring, it looks abnormally pale and wrinkled.  My thumb naturally reaches over where the ring once sat, searching for the familiar feeling of my band.  I have done that a hundred times a day.  Nothing.  It's bare.  Torn, I feel a trace of sadness mixed with a splash of guilt.  Gratitude.  My emotions are taking their sweet time to reconcile with each other.  My eyes well up.  I sat patiently and let this pass.  I've sat and patiently waited for it to pass, just like this, for more than a thousand times.  It is oddly familiar.  

I love my simple, well worn ring.  Full of scratches from everyday love. It's the only piece of jewelry I wear.  The small, pale blue Chatham diamond sits humbly but proudly, prominently, in the middle of my well-fitted platinum band.  I am proud of my lab-grow diamond.  It was the only diamond we would purchase.  My ring made me sparkle from within. It shone magic. It carried the bravest of the bravest story; our story. The ring has grown into my personality; it has become a part of me. Deliberate, purposeful.  Rebellious. Unconventional. Gentle as a whisper, tough as a warrior.  

Our wedding rings belong together. 

Photo courtesy of Katie Wat and Adrian Rus

It is symbolic as well as practical to string them together today - our wedding anniversary.  It is an act of remembering the blue bird winter day I married Eric. December 10, 2005.

I wrote a marriage manifesto on my blog as a celebration of our 7th wedding anniversary last December. I dedicated my manifesto to my husband, and attributed my growth as a person to the journey we shared together over the last decade. It was the best anniversary gift I could give him.  In Eric's honor, I read a part of the manifesto at his Remembrance. It was at once comforting but heart-wrenching. Most stabbingly painful.  I wished I had read it to him when he was alive. I am fortunate that I have very few regrets in my life.  This, I may have to live with for a while.  

There is no manifesto or celebration beyond 7th.  What needed to be said was said; needed to be written, written.  Love and adoration, expressed.  It was all done. He knew.  My husband had always known. 

Together again, our wedding bands, for one last time, on the day we were married. I was his proud wife.  Before, during, after.  Always.  Without bounds.   

I felt that I have taken the most deliberate, necessary, and courageous step forward and beyond.  Every bone in my body seems to hurt.  Frankly, it pains me.

But - still, All In.