It was annoying. Like a really bad paper cut, or a splinter. Aware that something wasn't right. I wanted to see if the world would treat me differently. I wanted to prove to Art how in trouble our marriage was (my words not providing enough movement). I wanted to see if he'd notice.
I put them back on.
Last month, I took them off again. It was an unceremonious event. I removed my rings, opened my ring box and placed them in it. The fell and laid next to his wedding band.
This time, it's as if a chunk of me was missing. They are part of me, like the black beauty mark 6 inches right of my belly button or the scar on my right knee. The rings are a part of my body history.
When my finger didn't clink on a glass or the counter or tap on the steering wheel, my mind jolted. I wondered, "Where did I leave them?" then sucked in air and sighed, remembering. My finger ached, needed to be massaged constantly. I had phantom ring finger syndrome.
10 days of no ring, 643 where-did-I-leave-them?, countless inhales, sighs and stomach ache sadness, I replaced the rings with a different one. One that a friend gave me as a gift after he died. One that only fit that ring finger. One that says to me "weaning widow."
Weaning widow, not ready to say:
Not ready to say:
not in a committed relationship.
Not ready to say
heart completely mashed
to the rest of the world.