I remember going downtown to Sweeney’s Jewelers with my then fiancee, Mike, to choose the ring that he would place on my finger on our wedding day. The style back in 1968 was to have a fairly wide gold band showcasing a solitaire diamond, so that is what the jeweler first brought from the vault for me to try. It soon became apparent that my hands were way too small for such a piece. Every one that I tried went all the way up to and sometimes beyond my knuckle. It was time to look at other options.
The jeweler was calm and seemed to understand exactly what I needed. Before long I was holding my hand out in front of my line of sight to gaze on a delicate set with thin gold bands intertwined. The engagement ring was lined with diamond and the pattern repeated on the wedding ring with a single large diamond beautifully balancing the artistry of the stones. It was uniquely stunning and I knew that I would enjoy wearing it for the rest of my days.
And so it was. Mike placed the two parts together on October 4, 1968, and there they stayed every single day since then with few exceptions. I removed the rings before going to the hospital to have my babies and when I had a couple of surgeries. I left them at home when we went on vacations because I did not want to run the risk of losing them in a faraway place.
Recently I spoke of my rings with my daughter and granddaughter as we enjoyed a girlie moment of reminiscing in the way that only women would understand. I noticed as I was sharing the story of choosing my rings how loose they had become. Over time my fingers were often swollen so I had the rings resized. Of late I they had hardly ever been puffy and so they were now a tiny bit too large.
On one occasion I noticed that the rings had twirled one hundred eight degrees so that the main diamond was facing downward toward my palm. I considered the prospect of having them resized once again but let other more important concerns grab my attention. I did not think about the rings for a week or so after I had looked at them with my daughter and granddaughter. It was only when I was listening to music while I drove to a tutoring session that I began tapping my left hand on the steering wheel in time with the beat. Suddenly I saw that my ring was not there and immediately went into a panic.
There was nothing I could do in the moment because I needed to take care of my students first. I’m not quite sure how I successfully made it through the next two hours but somehow I performed my duties and then drove home trying to remember what might have become of my rings. I realized that I had been many places since last knowing that they were still on my finger. There was no telling where they might have fallen off without my even noticing.
Upon arriving at home I searched my truck and every surface and room in the house. I even went so far as to go through the garbage and under chair cushions. All was to no avail. There was no sign of my rings anywhere. I was so upset that I was unable to eat the soup that I had prepared for everyone for dinner. Instead I went to my bedroom and cried.
It was not so much the actual physical loss of the rings that bothered me as much as the sentimental value of their constancy in fifty six years of my life. They had been with me through all of the stories that make me, me. I had worn it in times of trials and tribulations. They were my golden circles of life and somehow my instinct told me that I was never going to see them again. Nonetheless I made countless efforts to retrace my steps hoping to uncover the hiding place where the rings lay. I even had people searching the homes where I had visited. There was an all out effort to find them for me but again nothing seemed to be effective in locating them.
I am a realist at heart and I place a much higher value on people than on things. I do not generally collect expensive jewelry or trinkets. My tastes are simple and I am more inclined to repair something that is worn out rather than replacing it. I just spent days repainting lawn furniture so that I might use it a few more years before the rust takes its final toll. I realized as I thought of my ring that while it meant the world to me it did not mean the end of the world to lose it. I thought of people in Los Angeles who had come home after the fires to nothing but concrete slabs where their homes once stood. I remembered the photos showing how much Ukraine and Gaza have changed since the wars in those parts of the world. I understood that I don’t need my rings to remind me of how solid my love for my husband has been. My life is the jewel that matters the most.
Miracles do happen but I am not counting on one this time. I may never see my rings again but perhaps its time to replace them with something more practical for a woman my age. If I happen to find it them will rejoice. If I never see them again I will still have my beautiful memories which will remind me of the many blessings I have been able to count. Nonetheless, I think I will say a little prayer to St. Anthony. He’s a saint who has helped me find things before. Maybe he can lead me to the place where my rings are hiding. That would surely be nice.
Update: Many days later I was taking an article of clothing from one of my drawers and something fell on my foot. There were my rings! Now they are safely stored away until I can get them adjusted to the small size of my finger. They will be treasured.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 