Those without shadows

While in Paris this past week I wandered into a small shop in Montmartre and purchased a ring. This was quickly followed by a removal of another ring. Not significant in and of itself, but also not insignificant.

Several years ago I happened upon my mother's engagement ring from my father, Carl. I cannot remember how I found it, if my mother showed it to me, or why I even started wearing it, but I did. What is even stranger is that there has not a day gone by that I did not wear it. Nearly losing it more than once, sighing on the rare occasion I forgot it in the morning, and fielding the many, many questions about my (non-existent) engagement. Sometimes I lied, said I was engaged, sometimes I explained the silly story that isn't really a story. It just became habit.

The irony is that I do not know my father. I know his name, I know he ran for senator and lost, I know he has never sent me a birthday card, and the one time in the past fifteen years that I've seen him he had to call me because he could not recognize me in a nearly empty cafe. He is not a good man. And that is fine, there are much worse people, there are much worse situations (I feel awful whenever I bring this up with Jon as his story is far, far worse than mine) and I have had a wonderful life. And I don't bother wondering why I started wearing my mother's (fake) engagement ring from him because I'm sure there is a reason but I'm not sure I care to know. But this ring, silver and simple with what appear to be small thorns around it, has somehow made many things disappear and for that I am grateful.