With these rings

I snuggled Henry on my bed and buried my nose in his freshly shampooed curls -- the way I do every night for bedtime stories.

Liliana sat with us on this particular night in fleece pajamas, her braided hair still damp from the bath.

I flicked through "The Little Blue Truck," expertly handling the book with just one hand. My other hand covered Liliana's icy fists, which she was trying to warm in her lap after dowsing them with cold tap water while rinsing her toothbrush.

As I flipped cardboard pages and delivered phrases, Liliana fingered my wedding rings.

She tugged them apart, then wiggled them back together. She pinched them between her fingers.

I was sure this was an absentminded action meant to busy her chilly hands, but it seemed to me that she was reviewing the significance of the platinum and diamonds there.

When I was her age, a handful of my friends' parents had already divorced and begun new lives in separate homes. Some of her friends' parents have, too.

So I wondered: When Liliana touches these matching loops of metal and stone on my finger -- the ones I wear every day -- does she know that they symbolize a solid, lifelong bond?

Does she think about how the rings proclaim the deep commitment between her papa and me, who also happen to be her parents and the pillars that support our whole household?

Does she comprehend the implication of their absence, if one day they just weren't there anymore?

Does she think of these things on the mornings when she spies the rings starkly separate from my hand, while they rest on the bathroom counter after I've showered?

Is her world just slightly off kilter until she has successfully ferried them both back to me and she has slid them safely over my knuckle?

No. She couldn't possibly ponder these things. Not at age 6.

For now, these rings are just part of a hand that belongs to her mama, who is reading a bedtime story to her baby brother.