The Wedding Ring

You lay on the hospital table. They shot you with adrenalin. They pumped air into your lungs. They worked on your dead body for 45 minutes or more, and as always you took it in stride. This time you really didn't care. You were dead. We're here with you, son, daughter and wife, waiting for the doctor and nurses to complete their paperwork. We have nothing to say, but circle the table where you lay, sit and stand. I know that we're in shock, while you look quite content and relaxed. I rise and take your hand like some foolish robot. I realize I want your wedding band. I look at your hand, not yet cold or stiff, but soft and beautiful. I rub it and then try to remove the ring. I can't get it, I turn it around. I hold your arm up. I set it down, flex it back. I'm ready to laugh some nervous laugh. I change positions to the other side of the table, but you won't let go. I feel the fool, thinking I don't want to hurt you. I am ready to put your finger into my mouth to moisten it and make the ring easier to slide off, but I don't. The nurse returns, sees my struggle And takes your hand and removes the ring. I thank her and sit down and cry. I have become so impotent Unable to keep you alive, I could not will life into you. Unable to take your wedding band. It had been on for 28 years and had left it's mark. You may have given up your soul, but you fought hard to keep your ring. I'd take you home as if you're only sleeping. We're being dismissed and our son gathers me up, since I can't stop looking at you. I know I have to leave you here. But you won't leave me, I have your ring.