Date: Friday June 20, 2025
Mood: Heavy
Music: Marry You by Bruno Mars
Dear Richard,
I looked at my hand today while I was painting. There was a smear of cerulean blue oil paint right next to my wedding ring. The contrast—the bright, messy blue against the cold, hard platinum—made me stop breathing for a second.
I’m thinking about "The Proposal." Not ours. His.
It was 2016. Napa Valley.
Levi did everything right. He always does. He rented a private terrace. He ordered vintage Cabernet. He wore a Tom Ford suit that cost more than the car we used to drive in Cincinnati.
When he got down on one knee, he was trembling. "You told me I had to have skin in the game," he said. "This is it, Taylor. Past, Present, Future. I am betting my life on you."
He opened the box. It was Tiffany blue. Of course. The diamonds were blinding.
It was the moment I had demanded. It was the security I fought for.
I don't mean to sound like I don't love Levi, but as he slid that ring onto my finger, I didn't feel the rush of joy I expected. That I wanted. That he wanted.
I felt a phantom weight.
I felt the itch of a blade of tall grass.
I remembered the State Park. I remembered you twisting that weed around my finger, laughing, your eyes crinkled in the sun. I remembered how we promised to get tattoos because we couldn't afford metal.
That grass ring rotted in a day. It was fragile. It was temporary.
This platinum ring is indestructible. It is insured. It is safe.
I said yes to Levi. I cried. I drank the champagne. I let him hold me.
But later that night, in the hotel bathroom, I stared at myself in the mirror and realized the terrifying truth: I would trade this platinum band in a heartbeat for another day with that piece of grass.
I am wearing his ring, Richard. But I am still married to your memory.
Love always,
Taylor