Thirty eight years ago when John bought my wedding ring he was fresh out of theological school. Idealism was strong, and he chose to have it engraved. In Hebrew. It took several attempts to find a jeweler who could carve the tiny curved letters but we did. I knew then what the translation meant, but now I am unsure. This wasn't a problem
because the inside of the ring has not seen the light of day for a very long time. It comforted me to believe that it said something cogent. Probably "Mercy and truth are met together". Maybe "Justice and peace have kissed". In either case all was revealed before surgery last week. It turns out the ring had to come off.
I explained that it no longer could come off. The engagement ring was tight as well, but the nurse pulled out a bottle of Windex
and squirted my finger like the father in A Great Big Fat Greek Wedding. She wrapped a tourniquet around the joint and chatted while she yanked. The tip turned blue, which worried me, but the ring slid off. Whew. Still there was no chance of the band making it over the knuckle. She tried for awhile, being lavish with the spray but I called uncle. She fetched the electric saw. It only took a few minutes to sever the band that had stayed put for almost two score years. With a pair of
pliers she pried the ends apart. I almost cried.
I am grateful to have my mother's band, whose inscription is less mysterious. LRS & MRS 9/11/48
My daughter complained that her grandma only got Mrs to her husband's initials, until I explained that those are her initials. Theirs was a complicated relationship. As if any aren't. For the last few years he could no longer live under the same roof with her, and moved to Tucson. Her manic
swings were too exhausting for a man with final stage emphysema.
Gold is forgiving. It can be melted back together, and coaxed to close up the breach. I feel safe in the belief that my parents are together again, the brake forgotten in the refiner's fire. I bet the ring he got for her in the meantime took her breath away too.
