Right outside that big floor-to-ceiling window at my son's oculoplast's office, I can gaze down upon the jeweler where we got my engagement ring.
See me down there, my little starry-eyed 24 year old self? Slipping little diamond rings onto my finger? Smiling. Blissfully unaware of the fact that 20 years later across the street in that large building looming above me I'd experience some of the worst H E double baguettes of my life?
Aw, engagement. It leads to marriage and children and oculoplastic surgery.
Well, there's good news. The oculoplast was a bit shocked and amazed at his own handy work today. All's well inside that eye socket we've been so worried about. No more appointments in the looming eye building...no more forgetting to get my parking ticket validated before we leave...no more traveling in elevators alongside people, from 8 months to 80, with eye patches...no more justifying a quick trip to the corner Starbucks by telling myself it'll be too late when I get home (usually by 9) to make a pot of coffee...no more flying across the Ben Franklin bridge trying to make it back before third period. All's well. And my ring is still pretty. And I'm thankful for answered prayers all around.