It was a brilliant April day, the air so fresh and fragrant you could drink it. I walked to the church from our apartment in my blue blazer, a new white shirt, the tie we’d bought for the event, my hands in my pocket and my feet a few inches off the ground.
Carol was already at the church in the dress she’d bought at a discount shop on Orchard Street, decorated with some old lace her mom found in a drawer. I shook the minister’s hand. “Do you have the rings?” he asked.
I plunged my hands back in my pockets. Only spare change. “Nope,” I said. “I guess I forgot them.” The minister didn’t seem surprised—happens all the time. “I’ll go back and get them.”
I jogged back to the apartment, my feet a little closer to the ground. The rings were just where I left them, in their box on the bureau, our initials inscribed on the inside and the date: 4-30-83. I hurried back to the street and took a cab. “Guess what?” I exclaimed. “I’m getting married today.”
The cabbie was nonplussed. “I’ve done that a few times,” he said.
“But this is my first time,” I said. And on an April day like that, how lucky I am that it was my one and only time. The ring is still on my finger with a few scratches on it, the wear and tear of the years, but the marriage seems as good an idea as it was then. Even better. Every time I gaze at the ring I can thank God that a promise and pledge “to love and to cherish, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health” is just what can get you through good times and bad.
So I forgot the rings. I haven’t forgotten the day. Happy Anniversary, Sweetie!
