The Ring

Long ago I lost everything I owned and learned a valuable lesson about attachment to things.  Unfortunately I live with a packrat so our home is still filled with so much ‘stuff’ it makes my teeth rattle, but I continually sift through my belongings and pare down to the essential.  To this end, while Martha was out of town for a while, I decided to tackle my dresser which always seems to collect all the detritus of my life.  Out went holey socks, worn out underwear,  empty chapstick tubes, old grocery receipts, used up gift cards, etc.   

And then I opened an old jewelry box.  These days I only wear my wedding ring and occasionally some gold hoop earrings I keep in a dish, so I can’t even remember the last time I opened this box.  It felt like an archeological dig - a newspaper article from when I left my last job 35 years ago, NYC subway tokens (discontinued in 2003), miscellaneous foreign coins and euros, assorted safety pins, an obituary of a dear friend who died decades ago, many buttons in little packets that are attached to clothes in case you lose one - clothing I have long since gotten rid of.  Five ‘evil eye’ Mati stones brought back from a trip to Greece. Five?  I wonder what I was afraid of . . .

Then something that stopped me in my tracks. In the very bottom corner, wrapped in tissue paper, was the silver commitment ring I wore during my years with Daphne, long before legal marriage was a possibility.  I was already feeling the vulnerability and vague ache of the September trauma anniversary and I curled into bed along with a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings and memories too long forgotten and/or buried.  

The foremost of these was guilt.  Not survivor’s guilt.  No, years and years of therapy had gotten me through most of the constant rumination and re-play of fault.  Well, mostly.  But guilt that I have successfully moved on with my life.   I can’t even remember the last time I went to visit Daphne’s grave.  I have no doubt that she would have wanted me to be happy and to share my life with others.  But somehow, in the midst of my current life, I have spent very few moments honoring her and her impact on my life.  It was the guilty recognition that her memory is waning as I spend my life with others..  

Anger. This has been a recurring feeling every time I listen to politicians working to remove women’s reproductive rights.  The ring reminded me that Daphne took her own life when she found she was pregnant by her rapist(s).  Of course I didn’t learn this until much later given that her family had nothing to do with me. Times were different then, but how it pisses me off that we are returning to them.  

And finally, joy.  Twirling the ring around my fingers (I can no longer get it on since I’m long past my skinny days).  Smiling, I began to think about all the lessons Daphne taught me that have brought me to where I am today.  Peace with my sexuality, the comfort of intimacy, the trust of true relationships, kindness, laughter, and the “fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke” mentality.  I know I would not be experiencing the joy I have today without her influence on my yesterday. 

Now found, I’m not sure what to do with the ring.  Strangely I can’t even remember when I took it off.  Still, it feels odd to have it so tucked away that it has gone unremembered for decades.  My therapist used to always tell me that the river of time only flows in one direction.  There’s no going back to change things.   But, like the Sept. 11th “Never Forget” signs that are so prevalent here in New York this month, I feel like I want to do something.  I just don’t know what, but I want it to reflect my incalculable gratitude.