It’s been almost three years since my husband passed. I still wear my wedding ring. I have no desire to take it off. I still consider myself to be his wife. That was the deal we made.
“Widow” is such an awkward and uncomfortable word for me to use. When I talk to new people – repairmen, neighbors, random folks I encounter – about some past experience, I still refer to “my husband”. Because that’s who he is. I don’t sleep on his side of the bed, I don’t sit in his seat at the dinner table. When I sit at his computer to pay bills, I still respect his space.
Friends and well-meaning people ask why I still wear the ring. There are so many reasons, but the weight of it feels right and natural to me. When I take it off for any reason, I miss it and it goes right back on. Maybe it’s a selfish thing. Its presence protects me from unwelcome conversations with random people and I like that.
I’m not delusional or in denial. I know he’s no longer here on earth with us and I know he won’t ever walk through the door. In 2001, when we promised each other forever, I meant it. He’s gone, but he’s still my husband. He’s still my kids’ father. So the ring stays.
Maybe, one day, I’ll be ready to move forward. Then, I guess, the ring will go into my jewelry box for safe keeping. Until then, it stays on the ring finger of my left hand where it belongs.
