A marriage is comprised of the tiniest, tiniest things.
Just now I was going into my room at the office. The entrance to this room has a big metal door handle. When I touch this door handle with my left hand, there will usually be the tiniest clink as my gold wedding ring makes contact with that cold steel bar.
Today, as it has been for several weeks now, there was no clink. Because there is no wedding band. Because my husband is having second thoughts about our marriage. And I didn’t want to disillusion myself that we aren’t having any problems, so I have stopped wearing the ring.
[Come to think about it, he had started forgetting wearing it most times when I thought things were going well. He may not admit it, but he really didn’t like being married. To me it seems.]
I miss my wedding ring.
It was awkward and wieldy and weird during the first few weeks. And then I got used to it. Got used to the ritual of it. Got used to the habit of it.
And doesn’t that speak volumes about my predicament right now?
That tiny, almost imperceptible click. And I miss it.
