When my son Burt was born, almost 10 years ago, the first thing I noticed were his large hands. Recently, he had started asking to try on my rings, and I was surprised to see that they fit. So when he asked to try on my wedding band, I gave it to him and forgot about it.
Later, Burt, his brother Peter and I went to dinner at the Mountain View restaurant. When we got home, the boys went to their room and I settled in with a book about the actor Kirk Douglas. Issur Danielovich was his real name. Issy, as he was called, had known he wanted to be an actor by the age of 9. Now suddenly, my own little boy was standing in the doorway.
“How much do you love me, Mom?” he asked.
“More than anything in the world, Burt,” I said. He left the room. But after several minutes he appeared again.
“I have to tell you something, Mom,” he said. “But I can’t, because you’ll get mad. If I tell you, I’ll have to run away and hide in the closet.”
“Just say it, Burt.”
He held up 10 bare fingers.
“You lost my wedding ring,” I said as he disappeared.
Peter came in. He had heard the news first. “Burt lost your wedding ring, Mom,” he said. “Which marriage?”
Paco. On my 23rd birthday, he had given me a gold band. In Spain, that was the custom for engagements. The ring starts on the left hand and moves to the right when you marry.
My memories of Spain are romantic. I have forgotten the struggles. It was exciting and innocent. And that’s why, 25 years later, with Paco a part of my past, I still wear the ring he gave me, with its inscription: 2-8-68 Paco.
Burt thought the ring might have slipped off his finger at the Mountain View. So the next morning, I stopped at the restaurant to look around. It was 8 degrees below zero. I could still see Burt’s small footsteps frozen in the snow. But no ring. It was too cold to be outside, so I got back into the car, turned on the heat and headed off to the radio station for work.
Peter called me later that afternoon. “Mom, I went to the Mountain View after school on my bike to look for your ring,” he said breathlessly. “And guess what, I found it! And –”
“You found it?” I said.
“And it’s right here on my finger. Did you know your anniversary is coming up – February 8?”
No, it wasn’t, I explained. In Spain they wrote the dates differently – days before months. 2-8-68 was my birthday. August 2, 1968.
This year, Burt got 18 Valentine’s cards – 10 of which were from boys. The cards said things like, “We’re cut out for each other,” “Valentine, you’re outrageous,” and “No one could fill your shoes.”
The wedding ring was on my dresser when I got home from work. I put it on my finger. I had a feeling of sadness, the same sadness I feel when Paco calls. A voice from the past.
(Written February 1993)
— Ginger Dowd