Dad lost his
wedding ring a few days ago.
This time, I
searched for it by moving all the furniture and bringing in my industrial flashlight.
In the bathroom; under the dorm refrigerator; under the couch – those three
were long shots. He lost his wedding ring while fiddling with and seated on the
edge of his bed.
It’s a simple ring,
actually – something like the one above, though not quite. I couldn’t find an
exact copy…
At one time, the sterling
silver had been diamond cut, but wearing it for sixty-two years had worn it
essentially smooth. It wasn’t fancy and had matched my mom’s wedding ring,
which is resting with her now these past twenty months. His had known hard use –
construction sites, home repair, auto repair, lawn mowing, deck building, tree
planting, driving long distances, touring Europe, running spotlight, discipling
children, moving furniture, remodeling, playing softball, drinking beer, holding
grandchildren, holding great-grandchildren, and an endless procession of life’s
small but meaningful events that called for gripping with a hand bearing a ring
that promised fidelity until death stepped in to cause a permanent part.
I don’t know if we’ll
find it. We’ve found the wallet and apartment keys that have vanished only to
reappear a few days or weeks or months later. But I don’t know this time. It’s
such a small thing…
The worst part for
me?
For a man whose
memory is slipping away, the wedding ring was a concrete reminder of sixty-three
years spent with one person with whom he had made more memories than any other person…
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