The bee kissed my mother’s finger

just above her wedding band

and it was either the ring or the finger,

my father said later, so they chose

to save her finger, his hacksaw kissing

the white gold band just below where

the bee had perched, confused, my father

said, by my mother’s sweetness.

The buzz of the bee, the rasp of the saw,

it all raised a horrible racket

in my mother’s ears, but she couldn’t lift

her hands to cover them. “Hold your hand

still, Bertie,” my father said, intent

over the rise and fall of the blade, the flesh

on either side of the constricting band

white as a boil, the rest of the finger red

as a sausage. Afterwards, one half of the ring

was kept in my mother’s jewelry box, its story

taking the place of the other half, which was

mysteriously lost.

There was no explanation

for what had become of it or how my father

was able to cut the ring without injuring

my mother’s finger, or how either of them

had felt, my father on his knees in a caricature

of proposal as he ravaged the ring he had worked

so hard to get her, my mother frantic with pain

and fright, or so I imagine. Sometimes she

would take that broken arc of gold from its box

and hold it in her warm hand and we children

would beg for the story. If my father was

around, he would make a joke: "It was either

the ring or the finger, the ring or the wife,

and we could always get another ring,"

but for the rest of her life my mother wore

no ring and she never would say if

they’d made the right choice.

 

© by Dave Marghoshes.

Used with the author’s permission.