Letting Go

I took off my wedding ring Wednesday night.  It began as an experiment; I wanted to see what it would feel like.  And then I found myself reluctant to put it back on.  The skin where it had been was pink, like the new skin you find when you pick a scab.  For a day I wore the ring around my neck, but I can’t sleep with jewelry on so I took the necklace off that night.  The next day I found Michael’s ring and I placed both our rings on an altar, mine nestled inside his.

This morning I panicked and tried putting the ring back.  It slipped right on, comfortably resuming it’s place in the dent on my finger.  When I tried to slide it off, it stuck, like a reluctant dog who’s been asked to vacate the ease of a soft armchair. That made me feel even more panicky, so I worked it off again and sat with both rings in my hand.           

Michael and I knew that we are old, old friends, and holding those rings I saw what they symbolized pales in comparison to what we are and always will be to one another.  As I let go of the roles the rings represented – roles in which we were never entirely comfortable – what streamed in were all the lifetimes we’d shared, all that we’ve ever been to each other.  We’d been everything, explored every possibility, and in every possible configuration.  And throughout it all was the thread of his patience with me.

All of that became part of me again when I released us from the cramped space of Michael and Mia, husband and wife. Michael’s essence is part of everything I  have built in this life, the way water is part of a tree.  As I sat there with our rings in my palm, I allowed my parched essence to again draw him through my deepest roots giving me flexibility, heart, and strength.

A lifetime together is so short, like a stolen kiss as you dance a reel, a flash of recognition before the flow of the dance takes you away to the next thing.  The dance never stops, and sometimes you get lucky enough to share a moment with a beloved who has been with you since the beginning of time, someone who never really leaves you, and will always be back.  The memory of that kiss makes you smile for aeons, and the promise of its return is a secret pleasure that distracts you as you try to pay attention to other things that should seem important and matter not at all.

Michael’s birthday is next week.  He would have been 61.  What better gift than to give him back his immensity, to let him expand beyond the agreement that those rings symbolized. I know some part of him never goes far, that wherever he dances next there will be a smile on his lips. I love him enough to let him go, even though the human woman I am aches to feel his arms around me, to smell him one more time. 

Happy Birthday, sweetie.  Love always. 

When we were impossibly young

And with Michael's second grandchild, Leo Michael Breyman