Day 12: A Tale of Two Wedding Rings

We lost the Wedding Rings again. And by we, I mean Rich. And by Rings I mean mine.

His was already lost.

We lost the first ring on a camping trip in the Adirondacks. Rich was collecting sappy firewood and the ring caught and slid and was gone. We realized the next morning. And so for the next year we shared my ring- it was a bit too tight on Rich and a bit too loose on me. He wore it for a few days. We soaped it off his finger and I wore it for the next. This year, on our anniversary, he bought me a new band; simple gold that fit snugly. Later that night we sat on the steps leading into the backyard, twisting our rings, sipping fruity wine and feeling very married. Without any notice, the ring that began as mine but was acquired by him slipped across his fingertips and through the open steps. I said, let's wait until morning, but he shined the flashlight in ever direction, tearing up each blade of weed and grass under those three small stairs. Nothing. Sometimes we still go out there and poke around, but it's gone.

My new ring doesn't fit on his finger. We tried to jam it on, but the knuckle caught. Until yesterday, when the air was particularly dry. Rich was bemoaning the fact that he didn't have a ring and I offered to loan him mine (it's a familiar routine). This time it skinned past the knuckle and is stuck on his finger, indefinetly. We're sharing, again.

I wonder, what does this say about us? If we can't manage to keep a pair of rings, how can we manage to keep each other? Then I think of how we react to losing symbols of our marriage. I realize that I'm not angry at him for losing BOTH our rings. If fact, I'm quite the opposite. I feel blessed to have a husband who loves me enough to jam a ring past his knuckles leaving scraped skin behind, because he wants the world to know that he belongs to me. And there's something about sharing a symbol of our union that makes it a little more precious.