Etching.

Soon after acquiring my wedding ring seven years ago, I picked up the habit of reaching for it to twist it or wiggle it when stressed or bored.  I pulled off my wedding ring for the last time two weeks ago, and for a couple of days I found myself reaching for my ring, only to be thwarted by its absence, perplexed for the smallest fraction of a second when I grabbed only my own skin instead of the familiar bit of metal and stone.

I no longer reach for my wedding band.  I traded the habit for a new one: contemplating the spot on my finger where it used to rest.  It's easy to see the place, because my skin is actually etched where the circle pressed into it for the last seven years.  Even though the ring is no longer there, my skin has not forgotten that it was and will never forget.  The skin has irrevocably changed from the ring's presence.  Removing the ring prevents deeper etching, but it doesn't return the skin to the unmarred state it was in before its seven-year residence.

One day I'll put a new ring over the faint groove, obscuring it.  The new ring will begin its own etching process, maybe even deepening the original mark.  Its predecessor will always be in my skin, though, whether visible or not.