Love hits you at unexpected moments--moments like this one, when I'm sitting in my room by myself, listening softly to music, winding down for bed, trying to crimp one last necklace clasp into place, not thinking of anyone or anything in particular. A few words in a song trigger the realization that I've seen the one I love for less than four hours in the last nine days, and even though life has kept me more than adequately occupied and satisfied, right now I'd give anything just to lie down next to him and drift off to sleep.
I suppose most of the time I am quite good at doing my thing--working hard, and in my too-scant free time pursuing one of many outside interests. Sometimes, though, sometimes when I least expect it, this feeling in my chest or the pit of my stomach will take over and remind me that I'm deeply connected to someone else. Despite my best effort to control it, to make light of it and not act like I take it too seriously, moments like these make me realize that this relationship means more to me than most anything else. Somewhere in the course of the last two years I did let go and let myself love without holding my breath. It's hard to fully articulate, but when these feelings hit me, I probably feel the most scared, and at the same time the most grateful to have someone like him in my life.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Monday, March 10, 2008
Strange/r Love
It's funny how despite the passing years, the changes you go through, and the long silent periods, you still go on loving those same people who once changed your life, even though in reality now you only know them a little better than strangers.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Wedding rings without lovers' hands are just rings.
Unpacking is a process that takes me days, weeks even. I've been back from Georgia for five days now and piles of clothing and objects I removed from my suitcases (but with which I did little else) were slowly spreading across my floor, threatening to take over. Tonight I finally put most of my clothes away and moved on to peeking into the pile of small boxes containing jewelry and other small objects I brought back with me. Poking through the contents of one, I came across something I'd stuck in my bag almost as an afterthought when going through an old jewelry box at home--my step-grandfather's wedding band.
Both my maternal and paternal grandparents divorced, and both my grandmothers remarried. Neither grandfather did, so I ended up with four grandfathers and two grandmothers. Unfortunately none of the four grandfathers lived long enough for me to know them well. The grandmothers fared better. I was quite close to my maternal grandmother, and the wedding band in question was given to me by her one day when I was at her house. I had seen it around before, I think in the kitchen after my step-grandfather died. Though the details are fuzzy, I must have asked her about it, asked her whose it was. She told me that it was Roy's and that I could have it.
The significance of the exchange escaped me until just now. I was young; I took it home and tried it on all my fingers, and of course it fit none of them. I experimented with wearing it on a chain around my neck, but I abandoned it shortly for other, more sparkly pendants. It has sat untouched in my jewelry box at my parents' house for many years. Tonight, taking it out, I again tried it on all my fingers (it still doesn't fit, of course). I turned it over and examined it closely. It's a fairly simple gold band with five tiny diamonds forming a gently curved diagonal across the widest part. It's just a man's wedding ring.
But it was my grandmother's husband's wedding ring. I have no idea why she gave it to me, and she is no longer alive for me to ask.
I don't remember her making me promise to take good care of it, to keep it safe because it was special. She simply gave it to me. She had often easily handed over other objects I'd admired, so of course being a child, I thought nothing of it. Now as an adult, it seems strange to me that she would just hand over her deceased spouse's wedding band to a child as if it were a cookie or a doll.
You often hear of elderly people holding on to their spouses' wedding rings after their deaths, keeping the bands close until the day they die. I suppose the rings serve as a comfort to these people, of a reminder of a love and a commitment they once held dear and that shaped who they are in innumerable ways. I understand this; I'd be inclined to the same sentimentality. Being sentimental, one of my first thoughts tonight was that maybe she chose to give it to me as opposed to any of her other eight grandchildren (or five children) because she thought I was special, thought I would understand more, thought I would be more responsible for it than any of the others.
Maybe, but I doubt it.
Then, being also a touch cynical, I thought that because it was her second husband's wedding ring, perhaps it didn't mean as much to her.
Knowing how much love my grandmother was capable of giving, I don't think that's the reason, either.
I think my grandmother was just different. Once she let go of the physical person and internalized the experience and memories of her husband, she was able to simply let go of the physical objects associated with him. Without him, his things meant nothing. What she carried inside of her was more representative of him than any ring or article of clothing would ever be again.
I suppose what my grandmother might have been telling me, in a way, is that the true gifts we get from people are intangible; they are moments shared with those we love, etched always in our memories--a sideways smile through barely opened eyes first thing in the morning; fits of riotous laughter shared rolling on the floor; top-volume, windows-down sing-alongs to hair metal or Broadway musicals while driving; unexpected conversations around the kitchen table that last for hours past dinner and then bedtime; just the right hug given at just the right instant. A wedding ring doesn't mean anything; the real gift is looking into someone's eyes, knowing there's complete truth in the statement "we're in this together," and finally understanding what commitment means. The moments we have with each other, the love we share, and the memories we tuck away are the only treasures we can keep with us forever; everything else is essentially disposable.
I'll never know my grandmother's real motivation behind giving that ring to me, but I do know that, all these years later, it means something to me. Perhaps what I get from it is not what the wedding ring designer intended for the band, but I think it's significant nonetheless.
Both my maternal and paternal grandparents divorced, and both my grandmothers remarried. Neither grandfather did, so I ended up with four grandfathers and two grandmothers. Unfortunately none of the four grandfathers lived long enough for me to know them well. The grandmothers fared better. I was quite close to my maternal grandmother, and the wedding band in question was given to me by her one day when I was at her house. I had seen it around before, I think in the kitchen after my step-grandfather died. Though the details are fuzzy, I must have asked her about it, asked her whose it was. She told me that it was Roy's and that I could have it.
The significance of the exchange escaped me until just now. I was young; I took it home and tried it on all my fingers, and of course it fit none of them. I experimented with wearing it on a chain around my neck, but I abandoned it shortly for other, more sparkly pendants. It has sat untouched in my jewelry box at my parents' house for many years. Tonight, taking it out, I again tried it on all my fingers (it still doesn't fit, of course). I turned it over and examined it closely. It's a fairly simple gold band with five tiny diamonds forming a gently curved diagonal across the widest part. It's just a man's wedding ring.
But it was my grandmother's husband's wedding ring. I have no idea why she gave it to me, and she is no longer alive for me to ask.
I don't remember her making me promise to take good care of it, to keep it safe because it was special. She simply gave it to me. She had often easily handed over other objects I'd admired, so of course being a child, I thought nothing of it. Now as an adult, it seems strange to me that she would just hand over her deceased spouse's wedding band to a child as if it were a cookie or a doll.
You often hear of elderly people holding on to their spouses' wedding rings after their deaths, keeping the bands close until the day they die. I suppose the rings serve as a comfort to these people, of a reminder of a love and a commitment they once held dear and that shaped who they are in innumerable ways. I understand this; I'd be inclined to the same sentimentality. Being sentimental, one of my first thoughts tonight was that maybe she chose to give it to me as opposed to any of her other eight grandchildren (or five children) because she thought I was special, thought I would understand more, thought I would be more responsible for it than any of the others.
Maybe, but I doubt it.
Then, being also a touch cynical, I thought that because it was her second husband's wedding ring, perhaps it didn't mean as much to her.
Knowing how much love my grandmother was capable of giving, I don't think that's the reason, either.
I think my grandmother was just different. Once she let go of the physical person and internalized the experience and memories of her husband, she was able to simply let go of the physical objects associated with him. Without him, his things meant nothing. What she carried inside of her was more representative of him than any ring or article of clothing would ever be again.
I suppose what my grandmother might have been telling me, in a way, is that the true gifts we get from people are intangible; they are moments shared with those we love, etched always in our memories--a sideways smile through barely opened eyes first thing in the morning; fits of riotous laughter shared rolling on the floor; top-volume, windows-down sing-alongs to hair metal or Broadway musicals while driving; unexpected conversations around the kitchen table that last for hours past dinner and then bedtime; just the right hug given at just the right instant. A wedding ring doesn't mean anything; the real gift is looking into someone's eyes, knowing there's complete truth in the statement "we're in this together," and finally understanding what commitment means. The moments we have with each other, the love we share, and the memories we tuck away are the only treasures we can keep with us forever; everything else is essentially disposable.
I'll never know my grandmother's real motivation behind giving that ring to me, but I do know that, all these years later, it means something to me. Perhaps what I get from it is not what the wedding ring designer intended for the band, but I think it's significant nonetheless.
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