I lay on the couch petting the soft red fur of my little terrier, when I notice that the ring I always wear on my right hand is gone. I examine my naked finger as alarm bells go off. I got the diamond ring for my 25th anniversary and I have not taken it off in fourteen years. I slowly move the comforter to see if it has fallen on the couch. Or in the folds of my clothes. Nope. Then I hop up and look through cushions, as my mind begins to think of ways I could have lost it. Did the garbage disposal grab it? The disposal has pulled on the ring in the past but has never swallowed it. And if it had, I would have heard a screeching battle between metal, water, and diamonds. I had played baseball with my sister and nephew earlier today, and I remember reaching my long arms below a shrub to grab the baseball. I race down the road, scouring the park, and searching for a glint of diamond in the green grass. But no diamond winks back.
I went home defeated, and told my husband, who shrugged and said, “We might have to get you a new one.” This was nice, but I don’t feel a need to replace it. It is just a ring. I remember when I got the ring, the jeweler explaining that the two smaller diamonds represent the past and future, while the larger diamond in the middle is the present.” Sometimes I would look at the ring to remind me how happy I am to be loved by my husband, and how blessed our lives are. During stressful times, when I was feeling overwhelmed, I would finger the large middle diamond, to remind me to take a breath and return to this moment, to this next breath.
I touch my ringless finger. I can see the indentation where the ring once sat and how it reshaped my finger over the years. Maybe it reshaped my life a little. This ring provided a reminder of love, when love was joyful, but more importantly when love was hard. When my sad heart needed a song, it could sing. It was a bright little bauble of bling. But after all, it was just a thing. Goodbye, my ring.