I watched him in the bathroom mirror,
not scrolling reels like I pretended,
but studying the way his shoulders squared
as if duty were fastening itself to his spine.
He lifted our wedding band from his finger,
held it like something breakable,
then set it gently
into the small wooden box
he never calls a coffin,
though it feels like one to me.
I moved before I thought,
stood behind him,
wrapped my arms around his waist.
He leaned back into me,
not lowering, just yielding,
a quiet I could feel against my cheek.
I freed one hand,
reached into my pocket,
and closed my fingers around the thing
I had been waiting to give him:
a green silicone ring,
built for the field.
I turned him toward me.
The gold can rest, I said.
This one has work to do.
He slid the ring on.
Green against his brown skin,
a small, bright thing.