A Circle is Round

A circle is round
It has no end
That's how long I want to be your friend

This old Girl Scout ditty came to mind the second time my husband's wedding ring shattered. Yes. The second time, in 8 months of marriage. We were excited about the ring we chose over a year ago, it was a nice complement to my engagement ring, and the white gold braiding at the center matched the white gold flowers in my ring. A few months of wear, however, loosened that white gold braid so that soon his ring was a mess of unattached rings, like a weird wearable jigsaw puzzle.  Thinking perhaps work was doing the damage as the life of a chef means one's hands are constantly greased, constantly washing, we returned the ring for a new one and decided he'd wear the second one only on the weekends, opting for a silicone $5 ring for the workday.

The second ring broke faster than the first, the white gold braid actually snapping in half this time.  It was then that the old Girl Scout song popped into my mind.  The circle was no longer round, it had an end, and I'm English major enough to loathe the foreboding in that metaphor for marriage.

It was after this second destruction, frustrated with the necessity of purchasing a new ring, and disappointed that the ring blessed by his vows wouldn't take my husband through life, that my dad offered my Grandfather's ring as a potential replacement. My Grandmother's estate was newly settled, the ring newly passed along to my dad, and though in need of a refitting, was altogether perfect.

I'm a sentimental woman. And although I don't like to think of myself as materialistic, I am a romantic and attached to the doodahs of life that last long enough to carry memories with them.  It's why the wearing of my husband's late mother's ring means so much to me. The ring underlines the promise, bolds it, reminds me daily that the vows we took that day weren't just words or contractual speech, but were promises written in blood and gold and years.

And now he carries the same. And it struck me that we carry that golden weight similarly, in that I never knew his mother and he never knew my grandfather.  But I can see the imprint of his mother's love in the way he loves his family, the way he smiles at her memory, the guarded softness in his voice when he misses her. And I think he feels the same in me, knows the man that was my grandfather through the strength in my father's handshake, the stories told of his preaching life, his trip to Brazil, and the brief glimpse he had of my Grandmother, the wife of the first wearer of his ring, the weekend he proposed.

There's a special humility in wearing the ring of someone loved, someone who shaped your spouse. We must live up to the love etched in that gold. We must cherish that circle, that roundness of memory and life, and forbid it to end.

A circle is round
It has no end
And that's how long I want to be your friend

Heirloom

Over the last couple of years I've lost my last remaining grandparents.  As the matriarchs of their respective families, their deaths have brought with them the tidying up of homes, categorization of shoebox pictures, exploration of trinkets and recipe cards, and the divvying up of all of the above. Homes and land were sold, and the piecemeal sediment of their lives has been buried, tossed or scattered to new caretakers in the family and beyond.

A few weeks ago I invited several dear girlfriends over for lunch for the purpose of hosting loved ones around a table decorated with some of those heirloom items.  I inherited my Great Aunt Maryann's china years ago and its delicate blue flowers have been packed away in yellowing newspaper dated for my 20th birthday (deep into the Bush-Gore Florida recount, for those curious). I paired the plates with the crystal I inherited from my Grandmother, goblets for water and sparkling dessert ware. I served tea sandwiches, crusts removed and cucumbers smeared with herbed butter, on milk glass from my Great-Grandmother.

The lunch was quiet and kind, littered with laughter, prayer, clinking of wine glasses, and soft tears. Loss was fresh and ongoing to several at the table, and sometimes that rawness was palpable. Not uncomfortable, but a sort of throbbing warning that hearts nearby are vulnerable, newly wounded. I don't doubt that has frequently been the case for those around my table, and that it will not be the last, but I was buoyed by the memories of the women who cherished these beautiful things, knowing the sisterhood inherent in the drying of tears over crackers and egg salad. It's a gentle and unconquerable love.

The lunch was planned early in the year, scheduled weeks before one loss and in the midst of the other. It was simply a date that worked for all, communal crossed fingers that the weather would not do us in. While chopping and toasting and plating our meal in the kitchen, the day felt tenuous, balanced perfectly on the edge of various seasons for each of us. I was struck by how deeply painful, how horribly unfair life could be sometimes, how frequently we walk around with our wounds fully exposed to the elements. But at the same time, these sweet moments together, unwrapping scarves, knocking snow from our boots, pouring wine, squeezing shoulders and hands, the gentleness of those gestures and the fervor with which we want so desperately to love each other through the messiness of every wound, that felt like God. God deeper than, and yet sensitive to, the ache in every heart.

And I think that's what makes these heirlooms, the ring I wear of Mamaw's, the crystal I use for special occasions, the china I unwrap from aging newspaper, so heavy with import for me. I do not know every heartache experienced by the women before me, but I know that they loved well, that they took care of their sisters, their friends, often at a table. I know that they prayed in the midst of loss, teased a smile out of heartache, and dried a million tears in their decades on Earth, and I like to think that some of that comfort, a lot of that laughter, occurred with these plates, these glasses, sitting on tables in Texas, South Carolina, Arkansas. They can carry the weight of life, and they can hold the memory of more tears, more joy, more laughter for years to come.