Nineteen years ago today,
at 1pm
in Texas
in August
in a historical mansion
that only had two sputtering window air-conditioning units,
I entered a shiny wooden foyer and walked across worn rugs through a crowd of sweaty, beloved people. The antique piano played as I took slow steps up a creaky staircase, my feet bare and decorated with twisting lines of henna. Before a backlit stained-glass window, I stopped on the landing to marry a man that I had known less than a year. A boy, really. We were both twenty-one. Young and naïve and hopeful.
We and our guests sweated through our formal clothes as we declared our promises to one another.
For better for worse,
For richer or for poorer,
In sickness and in health,
To love and to cherish,
Till death us do part.
He placed a ring on my finger—a crystal clear solitaire, my engagement ring, with a newer contingency of tiny diamonds flowing away from it. The ring was top heavy and so it spun on my finger, reminding me that it was there, just like my dear husband. It would glimmer in the sun, a brief flash of light to help me remember that I was not living this life alone.
I wore it every day as we tackled the developmental milestones of adulthood together. Moving to Dallas, finding our footing in the world of work, making new friends, traveling, exploring. We adopted The Kid. We adopted The Baby. Still the ring was there, spinning on my finger, still top-heavy, reminding me that I was not on my own.
Around the time that The Baby came home, my dear husband and The Kid started making rings from coins. They would spend hours in the garage hammering and sizing rings, making silver and copper rings for family, neighbors, friends, teachers. One day, the two of them came in to the house together, smiles on their faces, and placed a ring on my finger. A dainty silver band made from a Mexican peso.
I was up to my elbows with taking care of everyone and everything, with diapers and formula and homework and dog food and chicken food and people food. The peso ring was so light that I barely even noticed it was there. There were no crevices for messes to hide in, no top-heaviness to distract me in a moment of chaos. I loved it instantly. I slipped my wedding ring off and tucked it safely away.
I’ve worn that peso ring every day since. When I am nervous, I slip it on and off my finger and feel the smooth slip of its curves. It is there when I need it, but most days, I barely perceive it. Light as a feather, warmed to my body heat.
Comfortable.
Just like my marriage.
I no longer need a top-heavy ring that glints in the sunlight to remind me that I am not alone. I know. I’ve known for a long time. It has been proven over and over to me by a man who is patient and kind and open to change, a man who has been by my side for the best and worst times in my life.
We recently revisited the restaurant where we ate our first dinner together as married people. The restaurant has changed. So have we. I look at the side-by-side pictures of us at that restaurant, then and now. Then, I see a new husband and new wife who are excited and hungry for what is to come. Now, I see a husband and a wife who have grown up together, who are still growing up together, excited and hungry for what is to come.
I love you, Alex.
19 years and counting.
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