Drowning the Ring

Have you ever thrown a ring into Iguazu Falls? I have. It was a thick silver band that I wore on my wedding ring finger off and on for 2 years. I was 25 when I hurled it into the abyss. Love, the easiest most accessible word to describe the origins. But love is never just love; shield, addiction, identity, long distance longing, fulfillment, failure. She had a matching ring too, the she who wasn’t in Brazil with me, the she who was somewhere on the east coast, the she who was no longer a part of me. Not that anyone is ever really a part of anyone, even in those supine minutes (hours?), gliding puzzle pieces that must eventually disconnect.

We bought the rings at Isla Negra, Neruda’s home overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Chile. You feel that you are destined for me, we believed together, waves crashing poetry, wet ghosts of Pablo. Love. Time passed, time finishing college apart, time in Spain together, then the Atlantic between us for months, then years. Over, done, but I kept the ring. Until that moment when we charged the cascading white water, the same water her parents watched on their honeymoon decades ago. Throw it! My friends urged. They knew I wanted to bury it forever. I looked at it for brief last seconds, dented, mostly smooth, then threw it like a high fly ball. Weightless now, sun, frothy water, glint of silver in the air, then drowned, dead.