Double Ring Ceremonies

by Linda Buckmaster

I was forty-two at the time, and he fifty-two when we married; we both knew what we wanted. I was a virgin at the institution of marriage because before Warren, I had never known a man I would commit myself to in that way. I never considered marrying my son’s father even though we were together six years. 

There was never any discussion between Warren and myself of a diamond. Well, maybe just a little. Warren was hesitant about wasting money on mere baubles, and we were in the middle of adding a cellar under the house, a new kitchen and bathroom, and expanding the dormer upstairs. We agreed we would rather put the money into new windows. 

At our wedding, Warren’s oldest son handed him the gold band. Warren fumbled with sliding it onto my finger, and when I looked up I saw he was bright red as he gave his vow to me, the heat from his face reaching toward mine. When it was my turn, the fingers on his outstretched hand were splayed apart, the third finger stretched just a little more than the others so that it was a bit lower, waiting to receive as if with its head bowed. 

Talk of the diamond emerged a few years later. As we aged and our shared children left home, we both wanted to seize everything life had to offer, and somehow “the diamond” became part of that. For our wedding anniversary in November, we drove two hours to Portland to shop for a ring.

At the store we pointed to some modest ones under the glass, which the salesclerk pulled out and laid on a velvet cushion. We narrowed it down to two, both delicate settings for my small hand, but “good” diamonds, well-cut and flashing with their good breeding. Warren was in one of his seize-the-day moods and wanted to buy the ring right then and there, me striding out the door with the diamond riding proudly on my conspicuous finger and him by my side. I said no. We went out to the parking meter for a discussion.

“If I’m going to get a diamond,” I said, “I don’t want to just buy it and walk out the store like

picking up a gallon of milk. I want to be presented the ring inside one of those little black velvet boxes inside a slightly bigger white box with a big bow on top.”

“A big bow on top?” he laughed.

“Yes.”

“Why not just get it now with the bow? It’ll save a trip later.”

“I want the ceremony.”

We came around to deciding that it would be a Christmas “surprise,” and he went back into the store to write down the statistics of the two I liked best. Arm in arm, we walked the bright windy streets of Portland elated for the rest of the afternoon. At that point, neither of us anticipated, could have imagined, that two days before Thanksgiving, in the school parking lot, he would suddenly collapse and die.