Chapter 11: The Ring, the Rabbi, and the River

The Ring and the Rabbi

It was never about the ring. Not really. It was about what the ring meant.

Back when things were still fragile, still uncertain, Honey once mentioned a ring she liked. Red stone. Possibly ruby. Josh remembered the word “Modify” — a local jeweler — and the cryptic phrase “at Maine.” He wasn’t sure if it was something she saw online, something from a dream, or something she’d quietly picked out for someone else. Maybe even Joe.

But years later — after the crash, after the diagnosis, after the unraveling — he thought back to it. And a thought hit him hard: “Maybe it was never a ruby. Maybe it was garnet. Maybe it was always mine.”

Because garnet is the stone of January. And Josh was born in January.

He never confronted her about it. What good would it do? But deep down, he carried a quiet conviction: That ring, if it was ever truly chosen, was meant to be worn for him.

The Rabbi had a role too. Rabbi Davis. Younger than Josh by fifteen years. Same birthday. Kind eyes. Soft-spoken. The one who saw Josh’s conversion through when no one else did.

Josh didn’t just study Judaism — he lived it. Wore it. Suffered for it.

He kept Shabbat. He davened even when the migraines split his skull. He chose the long path — the real path — not for recognition, but for truth.

Rabbi Davis had always been kind. Steady. And so when the end began creeping closer, Josh went to see him. Brought an air conditioner. Sat on the porch. And asked the question no one wants to say out loud:

“Would you do the Kaddish for me?”
Not for now.
For later.
For after.

Then there was the river. July 24, 2025. Josh and Rabbi Davis stood at the dam. Water rushing beneath them. Two men born on the same day, fifteen years apart.

A photo was taken. A quiet, unassuming photo. Just two men standing above the current.

But that picture meant everything.

Because in that moment, Josh wasn’t just a man dying. He was a man who had lived. Who had walked the path. Who had found his rabbi. And made his peace.

And somewhere in the back of his mind — even then — he imagined that ring. Red. Simple. Quiet. Sliding onto Honey’s finger.

Not as an accessory.
But as a testimony.
That they made it.
That love, even battered and delayed, had found its vow.