The One Ring

It's been one year, one month, one week, and almost one day since my wife died, and I'm thinking about finally taking off my wedding band. It's not because it's poetic, but more because the damn thing keeps falling off. It doesn't fit as snugly as it used to. I've been hitting the gym, and you can really see it in my fingers, I guess. I just don't want to lose the thing, or drop and break it (it's tungsten-carbide, it actually can break).

I should clarify, by "finally taking off my wedding band" I mean "finally moving my wedding band from my hand to a necklace." It will be added alongside my wife's wedding rings, at the risk of having one very crowded and jingly necklace. But on my left hand, the fourth finger (what's that finger called again?) will be bare for the first time in more than half a decade. It's something I've known would have to happen at some point, though the reason sure ain't what I'd expected.

Honestly, I'm kinda glad to have a practical reason to take it off. It's better than trying to decide when my love for my wife has sufficiently waned or some shit like that. I'm already anticipating more than a few freakouts. But it had to happen sooner or later, I always knew. Might as well be on the day that's one year, one month, one week, and one day after losing her. Makes for a good story that way. My advice for grief: do what makes for the best story. Like Tolkien.

#WWTD