Last December, Ryan, my late husband, was slightly perturbed that the wedding ring was missing from my finger. I told him that with the change in weather, it was uncomfortable to wear. He prided himself on the fact that he had never removed his wedding ring from the day we were married. I reminded him that I had taken mine off while I was pregnant because of my ballooning body. He said that was okay, but that little things like weather changes were something I could bear temporarily until the ring settled comfortably on my finger again. I agreed and put it back on, much to his delight.
Two months later, he passed away. The first thing I did before they took his body away was slip his wedding ring on top of mine. I felt intimately close to him in that moment, and for several months afterward, through that simple act of stacking our wedding rings and wearing them together. Yes, it felt heavier than usual, but it was worth it. I needed to feel his presence in tangible forms—his wedding ring, his T-shirts and pajamas, his jeans, photographs, and more.
For the first time, around last month, exactly six months after he passed away, I felt a strange sense of peace. Until then, the days and weeks leading up to his monthly anniversaries had been extremely triggering. But on his six-month death anniversary, I kept getting signs that he was all right. He was at peace. That made me feel at peace. I no longer needed the signs.
I removed both of our wedding rings and felt lighter. I removed his picture from my work desk to see if I was still okay. It didn’t change my love for him or make it any less. In a way, I was testing whether I could love him just as much without the tangible reminders and the signs. It was the ultimate proof of love: letting go while still loving from afar—as far as from different realms.
This week, I placed our family picture on my work desk. It didn’t change my love for him any more. I still think of him every day. How can I not? Not a day goes by without discussing Ryan with our daughter.
Love is a strange thing. You have to let go someday. We all have to let go. In that way, the ways of the Universe are fair.
But the good news is that love is eternal—albeit bittersweet, when we are operating in different realms in the interim.
While the natural tendency is to hold on tight, the nature of love is elusive and inclusive. Therein lies the conundrum of letting go while always loving.
So while I am learning to let go, not a day goes by without wondering what he is up to now. God, please part the heavenly curtains and show me a glimpse of Ryan—at least in my dreams, or in my mind’s eye.
