The Story of A Ring

Once upon a time, a million years ago, before Frank and I were ever dating, he was giving me a ride somewhere and I noticed he was wearing a Celtic ring on his right hand.

I didn't know much about this boy back then, but I did know he was a devout Christian. I'd never seen a man wear a ring just for fun, without a deeper meaning, so I assumed it was some kind of promise ring. I even imagined that maybe Frank was saving it to give to his future wife someday, and she would wear it as a necklace.

I had a ridiculous crush on him, and as I looked at his hand on the steering wheel, I thought, "The girl who will get to hold his hand and have that ring is the luckiest woman in the world."

Months and months later, when the unthinkable had happened and my prayers had been answered and we had started dating, I worked up the nerve to ask him about the ring. "Is that a promise ring?"

"This? No," he said. "I'm Irish, so I wear this ring because of its Celtic design." It was one of the first times I realized how proud he was of his Irish heritage. I didn't tell him what I had assumed. In fact I felt a little silly.

Herein lies a lesson: girls shouldn't go around making up imaginary romantic stories about the boys they have crushes on.

But months and months after that, after he had given me a ring of another kind, I told him about what I had thought on that long-ago day and the little fantasy I had concocted. He teased me a little bit—my imagination has always been over-active—but he enjoyed the story. The ring took on a little more meaning.

When he went away to live in Chicago, and I was still living in Virginia, I asked him if I could have his Celtic ring to remember him by. I strung it on a little silver chain and wore it as a necklace. Every time I felt it, I thought of the way it looked on his hand, and I remembered him and missed him. The ring became mine, and I treasure it.

And herein lies a greater lesson: sometimes the wildest and silliest of dreams actually do come true.