I broke my wedding ring finger last year and am told that I should wait until the one-year anniversary of the surgery to re-size my diamond. I’ve got it on a chain around my neck, close to my heart.
Since then, I’ve fitted various rings on my hand, increasingly smaller as my therapy progresses and I get back range of motion. My finger has healed considerably. It’s now about a size 6, whereas the wedding ring is size 4-1/4.
The ring which I’ve been wearing most recently is a sterling silver band on which the word HOPE is engraved. I planned to photograph it and post the photo in a recent entry, but decided that doing so was sort of trite.
Now I wish I had. Two nights ago, I took the ring off and set it on my dresser; and by morning, it had disappeared. I’m sure it’s somewhere — in my sock drawer, or in the folds of my winter pajamas. This weekend, I will take everything out and shake the fabric of my sweaters, pants and nightgowns until I find it. In the meantime, I’m wearing a silver and topaz ring that actually fits better.
I’m a little disconcerted by the loss of my Hope ring. It had no sentimental value; I bought it through a friend’s jewelry party. But the word “hope” has always been a touchstone for me; and there’s something eerily disturbing about losing hope. You know?
But I’m holding onto hope: Hope that the ring will surface; hope that my life will continue on its upward cycle; hope that the little rays of sunshine which I’m able to cast on other people’s lives will stir some of their cobwebs and lift their spirits.
I’m sad that the ring is lost; but I’m not complaining.