When I was little I used to love wearing my moms wedding ring. I would steal it from her, taking it off her hand and putting it on mine, a rush of excitement swelling up on my stomach and a thousand different scenarios on my head thinking of the different ways I too could get one. I loved my moms wedding ring. I adored it, inspecting every little stone that surrounded the big one. The one that represented the big yes. The I love you. The stone that represented unity, that represented forever.
My moms wedding ring was magical. It represented not hope, but certainty that love existed. Certainty that I would get my prince. It never occurred to me that the prince wouldn't want a princess. It never occurred to me that there was a chance I would never get that ring on my finger. Now my moms wedding ring makes me cry.
I put it on with tears in my eyes, weighing down my uncomfortable heart. My moms love story isn't mine. The ring mocks me, laughs at me. That big stone was thrown at me. It represents what could've been and never will.
I don't like my moms wedding ring. I envy it. It reminds me of failure. Of being so close to a love story so big I could taste it, and loosing it all, paralyzed by fear and unknown. The magic on the ring wore off, and now it's out to get me. I used to love that ring. Now I can't even look at it. Undeserving of something so beautiful, with no capacity of understanding why. Why? My moms wedding ring is a fucking reminder of unrequited love. I love that fucking thing but it could never love me back. My moms wedding ring reminds me of you.
