Seven-year-old Thing2 and his thirteen-year-old brother Jack take turns sitting next to me when we go to Sunday breakfast at Bob’s Diner in Manchester, VT. Thing2 is still at the age where he’s easily entertained by shiny objects and it was my wedding ring caught that his attention the other morning.
Waiting for our drinks to arrive, Thing2 grabbed my hand from the table and began inspecting the rings, twist and turning my finger. The Big Guy told him the story of the stone (they came from his grandfather’s ring) and then of his own gold band (also owned by his grandfather).
Thing2 tried to pull off my ring for close inspection, but I stiffened my finger and the ring would not come off. It would twist, but it would not move up my finger.
“It won’t come off,” exclaimed Thing2. The server had now brought our drinks.
“It’s not supposed to come off,” I said.
“What is it.. cursed?” he asked turning to ancient pop culture and Ringo Star’s ruby ring in the move Help to explain the phenomenon on my finger. Even Jack had to laugh at the question. Our server took our order and walked away giggling.
Thing2 was now wedged between my arm and body. Sun flooding through the plate glass window bathed Jack and the Big Guy on the opposite side of the table. It was just an ordinary Sunday with nothing planned except wood stacking and hanging out around the homestead. I had his answer.
“It’s not cursed,” I said. It’s blessed.