There was once a ring.
She never knew about it; it was the only secret I ever kept from her. Because after that first Wayne’s City kiss, I pledged absolute transparency—I knew that was the only way that we would ever work. And I wanted to be understood as a fox of his word.
The gamble was enormous. The one involving state lines crossed. And expensive pettifoggers. Endless boxes and bruises. The ones ending in too many damn sleepless nights; the ones bleeding into hot, hard days scrambling up those congested 120 miles.
Pushing to build a comfortable life from a tender start of want. Those early days holding the promise of only two tea mugs, a simple kettle we both kind of hated, and a single spoon. The one I stole from the first of many hotel restaurants—I still find myself occasionally missing “Spoony.”
It wasn’t much. But, we were together. And that was what I thought we both wanted. It made me happy to just be near her. To smell her hair in the morning. And to hear her laughter echoing through that little house when my thunderous morning emissions trumpeted against the bare walls as I snuck up to the kitchen to make the morning (nudi)tea.
We worked hard; we played hard. Laughed and loved; explored and wiggled. We took on the brunt of adulting with optimism. And an unwavering passion built on a foundation of typewriters.
Because I was supposed to write our story.
A story capturing the abuses we both had suffered in the before times. Those dark days when we hadn’t yet learned each other’s names. And that magical transformation back into colour once we finally did.
But like that little house, there were cracks in the foundation. Ones easily overlooked when distracted by the crushing responsibility of it all. The ones she patched and covered with words—sometimes hurtful, sometimes endearing. But never quite aligning to the genuine intent of a Clinton Country heart.
I simply continued to love her. And continued to fight for a happy life, with as much determination as I fought those fucking tin monsters. The unpredictable ones, trying their best to take out the immigrant fox with shocking regularity.
Little did I know that no matter how hard I worked, or how patiently I rode out the many storms of her instability, that she had already decided on a different ending to our story. Because I never read her notes.
But that would all come much later.
It was admittedly a simple design. One I had commissioned from that little jeweler right off the bay in Galway. Because I wanted to include her in the history of the only place that ever felt close to home.
It was a blizzard of transatlantic emails. The ones with sketches attached. And conversations about materials. Until at last, decisions were made and payments sent—just one of the reasons why I couldn’t always take her out the way she desired.
But I thought that gamble would be worth the risk of temporary disappointments.
I sweated that shipment all the way across the Atlantic. Worried and wondered. And compulsively checked the tracking number so many times, I had that fucker memorized.
Eventually, it arrived safe in the land of Q.D. Donut Munchers. A precious bit of Ireland sparkling bright under a Michigan sky.
I held it in my hand. Felt the smoothness of the precious metal against my bruised and calloused fingers. The same way I once gently stroked freckled, alabaster skin.
It was in my pocket that morning in the meadow; it was in my pocket on that last drive away.
But it wasn’t with me when I returned, crushed and defeated, back at a broken MLK view.
Unlike most of the 517 street creatures, she looked genuinely in distress along the ragged side of Saginaw.
Hair, spilling out from the tattered hood of a stained hoodie, matted and dry. Filthy pants, oversized and dragging, covered the tops of mismatched shoes—the first thing I generally try and observe when someone is soliciting for help. Because if their kicks are in better condition than mine, well, you can just move along, friend.
My heart was broken; the light flipped red.
I felt the green velvet box pressing into my leg. An annoying reminder of failed lives. And shattered promises.
A light tap on the horn caught her attention; I didn’t even bother to read the barely legible words hastily scrawled on collapsing cardboard.
The decision was already made.
The window buzzed down. A hand, shaking and pale, held out that little box.
She was initially confused. But a quick flip later and she understood what was being gifted.
There was once a ring.
And then suddenly, there wasn’t anymore.
It was supposed to celebrate the joining of our lives; we were supposed to be together. But our destinies were not designed to intertwine that way, I guess.
But I still like to think that maybe that ring helped to change a life into something…better.
A tiny spark of hope and love, given away to a stranger, down along the dirty Boulevard…
