Rings

I lost my wedding ring. I had taken it off to help my my artist friend lay out clay, smooth it down, shape it. It didn't seem like a good idea, to wear jewelry when working with clay. I had put the ring in a little side pocket of my purse, forgot to put it back on, put my purse in the basket of my bike, rode my bike the long way back home to get some exercise, then eight or nine hours later, at night, I went to my purse and my ring was gone.

I told my new husband, “I lost my ring. I will go look for it now.” It was dark out. My new husband was very angry, so angry he couldn't talk. I wasn't sure why, but somehow I felt he was right. So I went out in the night, checked at the gallery, drove with high beams and hazard lights on, retraced my bike route back home, and actually found my ring lying in the street, and returned home, triumphant but still feeling idiotic and in trouble.

My new husband was angry at me for days. It did not matter that I had found the ring. The question was, how could I have lost it in the first place? “Well,” I said, “I know it is a symbol,” and I paused, then said, “But isn't what I do for you every day and how I feel about you every day, more important than a ring?”

He said, “That's right. It is a symbol. The ring was blessed. At our wedding.”

This from a man who dislikes all western religion.

I didn't wear the ring for a few weeks, because it reminded me of being in trouble instead of being married to a nice man.

Last weekend my mother remarried. She's 68. She was a widow for five years. She was married to my dad for about thirty-five years.

When she arrived at the church with her fiancé, they discovered that they had left the rings at home. So they got married using someone else's rings.

The priest blessed the borrowed rings with a rosary and a prayer. He gave the rosary to my mother's new husband, who is Catholic. My mother felt married, her husband felt married, they switched to their own rings when they got home later that day.

Afterward, my mother showed me her new wedding ring (unblessed) and felt compelled to explain why another ring was on her other hand. This other ring, a diamond ring, my dad gave her in 1965.

She said, “I thought I would keep wearing this ring because it has brought me good luck. I think it's OK to do that.”

I said, “What do you mean?” She is not the superstitious type at all. She said, guiltily, “Well, I've had many adventures and a life I wouldn't have had if I didn't have this ring.” The ring, or the man she married?

Why do we hide one thing behind another?

I have nothing but good wishes for my mother and her new husband.