I didn’t notice it was missing right away. When you wear a wedding ring for 28 years, you take it for granted it’s always on your finger. Much like the invisible glasses I push up my nose out of habit, my thumb automatically twirls the stone back to the outside of my ring finger when it rolls around to the inside.
Sunday morning, I noticed my hand looked odd. The ring was gone. I searched all the places it might be—dresser, jewelry box and nightstand. I checked the pockets of my purse and the clothes in the laundry hamper.
I tried to remember everything I had done Saturday and why I might have taken it off — something I rarely do and only when I’m hands-deep in something messy or sticky that would gunk up the ring.
I shook out the bathroom rugs and used a bright flashlight to check the carpet and under the bed. Finally, I moved the couch and dug through the cushions. I found a dog toy, a pen, and a nickel. No ring.
I waited until Monday morning to tell Mike, hoping it would pop up during the day or I’d have an epiphany of why I had taken it off and where I had hidden it from myself. He looked where I looked and then checked the vacuum, washer and dryer. Still nothing. We both sighed.
I dug out another ring we had picked out in Jerome on one of our anniversaries so my finger wouldn’t look so naked and went to work, still wondering and worrying.
It’s a weird feeling to lose something so precious. It’s not a fancy ring – I’m not a flashy person who wants lots of diamonds and sparkle. I’d say it has a Midwest sensibility to it. Mike picked it out and surprised me a few months after we started dating. He thought it was perfect for me because the diamonds were inset into the band so they couldn’t be easily knocked out. “I know you’re always busy doing things with your hands,” he said. I was touched he had put so much thought into the design and how well he knew me in such a short time.
That ring has been through a lot in 28 years. It’s been on my hand as I lifted and packed many boxes during moves between countries and across the states. It was there when I grabbed onto the sweet baby hands of my nephew and nieces to play with them and push them on swings. It was on my finger when I held my mother’s hand in her final years. It was there as I hugged friends, stroked cats, walked dogs, comforted hospice patients, waved at neighbors, planted flowers in the garden, cooked dinner, washed dishes. It was something to twirl when I was bored in long meetings or was pondering what to write about for this column.
Most of all, it was a daily symbol that Mike and I were walking through life together. It was sad to think about never seeing it again.
But thinking about what folks around the country have lost to fires, tornadoes and storms in the last few months alone reminded me how lucky I am. A lost ring can be replaced. A lifetime of memories blown to shreds or burned to the ground is much harder to get over.
Monday night as we cleaned up the supper dishes, I decided to look one more place. I put on latex gloves, grabbed a fresh trash bag, and took the kitchen garbage to the garage. I knew I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t search everywhere.
As I sifted through the remnants of banana peels and avocado skins mixed with plastic wrap, egg shells and coffee grounds, I began to accept that the ring was truly gone.
As I scooped the last handful of coffee grounds and dropped them into the new bag, a flash of gold sparkled at the bottom. My ring. I fished it out, peeled off the gloves, and raced back inside the house “I found it,” I shrieked.
“No way!” Mike said. “I wouldn’t have even thought to look in the garbage.” I washed it carefully in the sink, handed it to him, and offered my finger so he could make it official by sliding it back in place. We’re married again. And I’m especially grateful our garbage pickup isn’t on Mondays.