You are the real lord of the rings. There was the newest band of silver engraved in Latin with twisted words of my beloved and your beloved or some such prattle. I ask after it and said how strange it is to hear you tell the story of exchanging rings and public declarations of commitment. You asked why I think it’s strange and I shrug off your ability to be so obtuse by not answering you at all. I was the salt to your pepper that you spilled and then tossed over your right shoulder for luck. Or is the left. I always forget.
Then automatically, I wondered where mine now sits. Is it still on the chain around your neck lying flat against your heart? Of course it was never there really…going from hand to chest like all the rest.
So in your treasure chest at home sits the graveyard of rusted rings. A circular and banded memory of love for you to call upon any time you wish. Tons of tales you offer to the newest members of your ring bearer club while you await the latest gift.
For me it was a welcome treat and I thank you for talking with your hands like you always do. All my troubles went away in what’s left in your chest. It just took me looking up from your wrist.