Christmas Bells and the End of the Ring

Continued from Cold Storage

I traveled home bursting with pride that Christmas, ten years ago. After flying from the Rockies, over the plains and down out of the clouds to the snowy Northeastern countryside, I made sure one of my first accounts of the previous semester was a boastful story about my pretend engagement ring and its precipitous success . My mom didn't think it nearly as awesome as I did. In fact, she seemed rather disappointed.

"Dishonest," she called my clever trick, petitioning me to discontinue the ploy on my return to college.  What followed was a bombardment of encouragement to be sociable, resume dating, stop being surly on those dates, have more fun, don't spend so many Friday nights alone, and quit avoiding guys like the plague.

I got the hint and never gloated again.

On Christmas day, I drove the 20 miles to my missionary friend's parents' house to hear said missionary's voice for the first time in the better half of a year. We talked as old friends, laughing over his crazy stories, his lived experiences in a place so far removed I had a hard time imagining it or him there. I told him about classes, roommates, Russian choir and what it was like to be back home. No mention was made of dates or the perceived need for a fourth-finger-ring. The feeling at the end of our conversation was one of warmth, but also distance. I could not even begin to understand what life was like for my best friend on the other side of the world and I didn't feel free to be honest with him about every aspect of my life at school.  That friendly warmth was nevertheless assuring. We could make it another nine months and then there would never be a reason for distance again.

Reluctantly and with a reminder from my mom, I returned the dishonest ring to my roommate when we reunited in January.