January 7, 2005

• A Symbol of Nothing Much

  My mom’s hands are beautiful. No matter how much she scrapes about in the dirt, kneading her garden into an enviable tangle of green, shadow, and light, her hands have always rinsed clean to reveal starling elegance. The graceful poise of her fingers and wrists has never made her look prissy or princess-like; rather, she holds her hands like a queen—a goddess able to create life with the wave of her fingertips. My mom has never been a woman who primps and fusses over long and garishly painted fingernails. Her nails are natural, straight, strong, pretty shells that grace the tips of her fingers: subtle accents to a beautiful collective whole.

  Since her divorce from my step-dad this past autumn, I am sometimes startled to see her without the quiet and familiar gold ring that decorated the left ring finger of these perfect hands for so many years. I wonder where it has gone.

  Her wedding ring was gold, and boasted a pretty engraving of vines wrapping around her finger. The engagement ring held a diamond of a good size: not showy, not small, but…nice. Her rings were bright without being brassy; they maintained their origins as mere products of nature. My mom’s wedding rings were as accurate reflection of her as anything a person can physically own. My mom’s rings were what I came to associate her with, even if I didn’t know it until they were gone.

  Although I have never seen it, I like to think that the ring my real dad gave to my mom was so unlike her that it should have been clear from the start that the marriage would be a failed venture. I like to imagine that this ominous ring was angular and cold. In my mind, the diamond engagement ring flaunted itself and boasted status so very separate from the humanity of the actual marriage. I wonder where that ring has gone as well. I’d like to see it to know if I’m right.

  My wedding and engagement rings are small and silver. They slide up to my knuckles when I’m cold. The wedding ring is a small sliver that wraps itself around me. The center diamond on my engagement ring creates little rainbows when the light shines on it. This used to distract me and wrap my heart in nerves when my husband and I were still engaged.

  I don’t wear my ring consistently. Not wearing my ring is an affirmation to myself and my partner that our relationship has not been institutionalized, and that we will not conform to societies prescribed roles. Besides that load of feminist pedagogy, I oftentimes simply forget. It is jewelry, and I wear it when I dress up, or when it matches my outfit. But I never forget my partner. When I need to take strength in our relationship, I never glance to my left ring finger—I put my palm over my heart. I wonder what my mom did to summon strength in her relationships. I’d like to know, in all honesty, if there ever was any. If not, I want to know how the sweetness of love can overlook a woman with such beautiful hands and a smile and a heart to match.

  • 7:20 pm
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