My husband put this ring on my finger at our wedding in the summer of 1982. My attendants were swathed in pastel. The groomsmen coordinated beautifully. Mother looked ravishing.
To the casual observer, Daddy appeared sad, walking me down the red-carpeted aisle that day, but believe me, he wasn’t. I was the last of three daughters to wed, and he couldn’t have been happier.
After delivering the marriage vows, the minister pronounced us man and wife. We sealed it with a kiss and exited to the sound of classical music.
As helium balloons soared toward a cloudless blue sky, the bride and groom dashed to the waiting limousine. The wedding was over. The marriage could begin.
I wish I could say the newlyweds lived happily ever after, following that lovely afternoon in May, but I can’t. In 2002, 20 years after saying I do, the groom decided he didn’t. Thus, my diamond ring now sits in a closet in a briefcase filled with “important things.”
When my friend Ann’s husband divorced her (after 30-plus years of marriage) she took a ride in a hotair balloon and tossed her ring as far as she could throw it. It represented her freedom to be whatever she wanted to be and to do whatever she wanted to do. She smiles everytime she tells the story, and I smile with her.
Maybe one day I’ll do as Ann did and rid myself of this ring that graced my finger for 20 years and symbolized forever. But for now, I’m keeping it in a closet in a briefcase filled with important things.