Something Small

It was January 12, 2007. I lost Wayne’s ring, his wedding ring which I have worn on the middle finger of my right hand since soon after he died.

I had gone to bed early but woke with a start at about 10:45 p.m. and thought to feel my hand for the ring. It was not there. Funny how such a thing can wake you from a sound sleep. I threw back the covers and felt all over the bed, looked on the dresser, on the floor, in the closet, in the pockets of everything I had worn for the last two days. I had no idea when it had slipped off.

I thought it might be in the gloves I had worn to shovel snow. No. Not in the car. Not in the washer. Not in the hampers or the jewelry box. I went to bed again. In the morning I looked again in the gloves and pockets. No. I prayed to find it, but I didn’t have much faith, I’m afraid.

The whole thing made me sad. You know.

Next day I went to Lola’s, to Costco, to Office Max, and came home. The driveway snow had melted by then. I had items in the trunk, so I walked back to get them and saw the ring on the driveway pavement about five feet behind my car. I had driven over it backing out and coming in.

Small thing? Sure, but it felt like a little miracle to me. Could I live without the ring? Sure, but I am glad I don't have to.