The Ring

As he slid the metallic, hollow circle over my knuckle, I was surprised how comfortable it felt on a finger which had been naked for so long.  Thin band of white gold with a solitaire in the center.  Had time passed so quickly since David died, or was I just really ready to take this step?  Four years is an eternity to sleep alone after being together for what felt like a lifetime…but maybe seventeen years is just a drop in the bucket of lifetimes…?

“How does it feel?”

I looked up from watching the light catch the facets of the diamond and into his eyes, realizing I was probably lost in thought again.  I really didn’t mean to be so distracted.  He was so gentle, so caring.  So different from David in stature and mannerisms, but so similar in personality.  Perhaps that was the attraction.  That, and the children seemed amenable to him.

After David’s death, I invested the insurance money, bought a house, and worked on web designing and social media marketing to make ends meet.  I resisted the desire to date, the desire for touch, the desire for noise in the quiet of my bedroom without the snoring sound David once made while lost in dreams.

Sometimes, in that same quiet of night, I would scream silently into a pillow…David’s pillow.

On the year anniversary of his death, I threw it out with the trash.  Not that I didn’t want to remember him…but I always said that a year was long enough to mourn.

My body felt it, too.  I would watch sappy rom-coms to feel connected to love, to life, to relationships.  But I wanted touch.  I wanted my bed to be warm during the cold Wisconsin winters.  I wanted someone to take my hand as we walked into a store together.

And, he had done those things…except for the bed.  My bed is still cold.  We agreed, because of the children, to wait.  I wanted them to continue their moral education, and no matter how much I longed for him, we set boundaries.  And I knew I would never forgive myself if I crossed them.

“Babe?”

I had done it again…wandered in and out of thoughts, of memories.  I wondered, if I am creating a new reality with him, here, now, why can’t I get my mind out of the past?  The feelings flooded more freely lately, like a deluge of emotion I never saw swimming in a sea of obligatory, perfunctory actions.

But this was right.  I knew it.

And as I looked up at him again, I said, “Right.  It feels right.”

Cursive? or Print?

Which do you prefer?

Were you taught to write in cursive? When?

I was taught (and graded) on cursive handwriting in third grade…Mrs. Jordan’s class.  And, I struggled to get a B-.  “Why do we need to learn this?” our class inquired of our teacher.

“It’s faster,” she responded. Indeed.

Cursive was tough stuff for me as a struggling third grader; now I prefer it to printing most of the time.

Well, a dear friend of mine and current student of medicine asked me recently, “Do kids still learn cursive?”

I replied, “Some of mine have…but not all of them were taught cursive writing formally–and my older ones still print most of the time. Why?”

“Well, I was just reading that losing the ability to write in cursive can be a symptom of dementia. I wondered if people were even learning it in the first place, and what we’ll do if we don’t have that symptom to eval for anymore.”

Good point.

I have read that people with dyslexia write better with cursive and should be taught how to write in cursive as soon as they are able.  As a person who has struggled with both handwriting and (mild) dyslexia, I can attest that cursive is easier for me.

On another note, I was thinking that maybe teachers are so bombarded with information to teach children for their end of year testing (you know, those lovely bubble tests?) that maybe they feel pressed for time with teaching and cannot afford the “expense” of spending so much time on the dying art of cursive writing. You don’t exactly “bubble” your answer in cursive or print, now do you?