What's in a ring?

She insisted that she wanted to be "married". I loved her, so I obliged.

I gave her the diamond ring, the most expensive item I'd ever bought, on one knee, in a pose of loving submission.

She accepted, and put it on her third finger. I was oblivious to any deeper meaning. My culture told me that's what men and women do when they want to be bonded.

We took pictures, and shared the "good news" with our families.

Her happiness was the goal and the reward. I reveled in her newfound satisfaction.

Only later did I notice the pictures of her with other rings on her middle fingers. The middle finger is larger than the other fingers, but American culture taught us (perhaps erroneously) that the ring finger is the true finger of love. The old wives' tale asserted that a blood vessel ran directly from the ring finger to the heart.

As our relationship endured hardship, and turmoil, I observed that other men and other governments knew her better than I did. I oberved that her loyalties lied elsewhere, when I expected a bond above all others.

"Why don't you wear our wedding ring on your largest finger?" I asked.

She tittered and equivocated.

"Why don't you trust me?" she asked me, in unanswerable retort.

I figured husband and wife should trust each other above all else. I held my tongue.

I asked her what she thought about the plane trails in the sky, blocking out our sun. She insisted that it wasn't unusual. She asked me if I was sure that it hadn't been happening the whole time.

She refused to admit the outlawing of air and sunshine. My closest partner! The effects on my heart and my psyche were disastrous.

Desperate for information, I spoke to other women, with her blessing first of course. I reached out in every direction. Some directions were loving and informative, and others were poisonous and deleterious.

The information I gleaned was shocking. The American people, slowly being robbed of their souls and their dreams, while my ring-bearing queen denied the existence of a problem.

I raged and railed. I was inconsolable. In an unfortunately common repetition, I was rebuffed in all my attempts to discuss the problem.

I accused (perhaps wrongly), I questioned, I begged, I suffered, I interrogated, I queried, I doubted, I suspected, I contested, I challenged, I examined, I probed, I grilled, I quizzed, I asked, I cross-examined, I impugned, and I scrutinized. But she *looked* like the perfect wife, and her behavior *looked* like the behavior of the perfect wife, so I relented.

Many years of living with a person whose love seemed to be pulled away from me in most circumstances, while my love was supposed to be exclusive to her, and my heart began to break.

I felt like we were in a burning house, and when I pointed out the flames to her, she told me there were no flames. "Problem? What problem?"

Symbols of love are important, but they aren't a substitute for love. These visual words can be used to fake and lie, just like verbal English and text.

Some people hug without affection.

Some people kiss without love.

Some people kneel without reverence.

Some people pray without piety.

Some people wear wedding rings without loyalty.

Some people cook and clean for their husbands, but aren't good wives.

Some people mow the lawn and buy nice houses, but aren't good husbands.

Some people do their homework, but aren't good students.

Some people fly flags, but aren't real patriots.

Some people wear expensive suits, but aren't rich.

Some people take daily showers, but aren't clean.