The Ring

Hey, it's Sunday Morning

I grew up believing shiny shoes and a crisp shirt said everything about a person: a gold chain, a good watch, a pinky ring were proof. Not symbols. Proof.

One Sunday morning, my wife and I sat at 12 Chairs Café and noticed a couple a few seats over. They held hands across a small table, bodies leaned in.

She stirred her coffee with her left hand, eyes on his. It was early afternoon, but they were still saying good morning.

“Did you see the rock on her hand?” I asked.

She smiled.

“They look very much in love.”

We finished our cortados and left.

She was looking for love. I was looking for proof.

The ring caught my eye first. Not the intimacy, not the lean. The diamond. The evidence of a moment worth marking.

The ring wasn't about them, it was about me. About belonging. Earned. Not given.

I was still performing then. Still scanning for signs I’d made it. So you develop eyes for markers: the watch, the address, the ring. Documentation that I was here, that I counted.

That hunger has a cost.

It makes you unavailable: present in body, elsewhere in mind. Always measuring. Comparing.

At 12 Chairs, my wife saw tenderness. I saw data. I couldn’t just see two people in love, I saw a milestone.

There’s no certificate that says you’ve arrived. No bell. No grand announcement. But somewhere along the way, I stopped needing the ring to mean something about me.

I can see them now. Not the ring.

The hands.

The lean.

The noonish good morning.

I’m not looking for evidence anymore.

I’m just here.