Maybe it is better. . .

Michael said he wanted to give me a ring for Christmas. "What do you mean?" I offered nonchalance, turning away, rinsing a dish in the sink.

"It doesn't have to be a ring ring," he said. "It doesn't have to mean anything."

"Well, so long as it doesn't mean anything," I said.

I was 29 that Christmas. I wanted it to mean something. The ring is a thin gold band with a garnet no larger than the head of a nail held between two heart shapes. The garnet flashes like a turned maple leaf in autumn.

Michael gave it to me on Christmas Eve in 1985. He'd be shocked to know I wear it most every day now. So thin and unobtrusive and reminding me that maybe it is better to ask that things mean something, that it matters. It all matters.