My Three Rings

Sometimes when I'm bored at work I stare at my hands.  Not because they're long and skinny and remind me of the skeleton from my life science classroom.  (They do though.  It's unfortunate.)  Instead I look at my three rings.  I think about each of them. Twirl them around so that the diamonds face the keyboard, and press my thumbs against the faces. And I remember how blessed I am.

I wear three rings on two fingers.

The left hand is the obvious hand.  There is the simple band with inset baby sparkles. I remember walking down the aisle, inside, and looking at my handsome husband-to-be.  I remember his vows.  His promise not to put my good jeans in the dryer, and to put the toilet seat down.  I remember his little brother, adorable best man, down on his knee, ring held high in the air for J-Man to place on my shaking hand.  I remember that it felt perfect.  Absolutely perfect.

Above the band I feel the prongs on my emerald cut that I only realized I wanted when I realized I wanted a ring at all. Something to not make my fingers seem so long. I remember that night I was instructed to bring a flashlight, hat, and a camera and we skipped down 59th street because he said I'd want to remember skipping, and how he sat me on that bench in central park, and how he told me he loved me and that he'd lied to me but that the lie was that he'd already gotten his americorps check and how he'd spent it and how he wanted me to be with him for the rest of our lives.  I don't remember saying yes because I didn't.  But with some prodding I did spurt out an "of course" that I have never meant more whole-heartedly that night.  And I remember holding the pole on the subway with my left hand for the world to see, and knowing that once I used that finger for my CTR ring, to remind me to choose wisely, and now I had chosen. And the world could see that I had chosen, and had said yes (well, of course) and I was making the right choice and I was happy. 

And I smile. For the man in my life, and the woman I am with him.

With the right hand I hold my thumb over the ornately, unique silver ring and it's small, reflective center.  I think of the woman who gave me this ring. I remember her as a lady.  A lady if ever there were one.  I remember playing in her jewelry box, examining pearls and silver.  Peeking in her closet to see identical one-inch pumps of every shade imaginable.  I remember telling her that if she would leave me this ring I would be honored for life.  And I remember her giving it to me, senior year of college, telling me that I shouldn't have to wait for something to happen to her before I wore it.

I remember sliding it on my finger and thinking that I might be a lady too.  That one day a man might want to marry me.  Broken, disillusioned me.  I remember wanting to make her proud.  Wanting to wear this ring without ceasing so that I could always remember her. The way she smiled. The way she brushed my hair and told me stories of high school in Washington DC in the 1940s.  Stories about her brother teaching her to stay away from those "sweet" drinks.  Stories of the other school girls who were jealous of her light skin and beautiful face.  Stories of her sacrifice to raise a family with a husband working nights and sometimes days too.  Stories that ingrained in me one solid, undeniable truth: as a black woman I can be anything, including beautiful.

When I wear this ring I remember all of this.  And I remember the night that she passed away. When I told her I loved her on a busy New York street.  She couldn't respond, too paralyzed from the stroke, but they say she heard me.  They say after she had heard all of us, the rest of the family in the room, and me on the phone, that she found rest.  She found peace that she had earned.  That night, my J-Man let me cry in his bed until I couldn't breathe.  He was helpless and my tears made me raw.  He held me, and I let him. 

And while I couldn't know it yet, I somehow already sensed that the night was a beginning and an end.  That this woman had prepared me, along with my mother, along with my sister, along with the other amazing women whose footsteps I am blessed to follow, she had prepared me to let someone love me.  And this man, the one who held me, and who let me soak his pillows with my sadness, would one day bless me with two more rings to tell me that I am loved.  I am a lady in my own right.  I am beautiful.

So as my thumbs slide each ring back to their upright position, I reflect on this.  And I think what I will tell my daughters one day, should I ever be so honored.  And I smile. Because the rings don't tell me any of this.  They just remind me of all the perfect memories I've formed along the way.