I found my wedding rings today — Valentine’s Day.
For anyone who missed Fish Tacos, these rings represent a marriage that is no longer.
When I moved last fall and started unpacking, I noticed that the rings didn’t surface. In the back of my mind, I thought I’d put them somewhere safe but as the unpacking continued and they still didn’t turn up, I started hunting. They were nowhere to be found. I figured I must have accidentally thrown them out during the usual pre-moving purge.
This unsettled me. It’s not that I held out any hope of rekindling the marriage. It was truly over. But I didn’t like the idea of having thrown them away, even par hasard. Love went into the choice and exchange of rings with the very best of intentions. To throw them away made me feel like the marriage had been thrown away, like I should have tried harder.
We did try. But there was nothing solid enough to salvage. It had been a mistake in the first place. A colossal mistake. Never should have done it. And we had to undo it.
I told myself that if I’d thrown the rings away, maybe it was the universe’s way of relieving me of having to decide what to do with them. Of letting me move on and live without having to know that they were sitting quietly in that box or drawer over there.
Today, a co-worker was asking if I like my backpack as she’s in the market. I love my backpack and gleefully started showing her all the features. When I got to an inner pocket, I could feel something inside. I assumed it was earrings — I’m forever taking off earrings at the gym and stashing them in my bag for safety, then forgetting to return them to the jewellery box.
It was the rings.
I told my co-worker that I thought I’d thrown them out. She saw the look on my face and said, “You’re welcome.”
I’m glad the rings are found. Truly. But there are mixed feelings. The universe didn’t spare me. Now I know where they are. I’ll always know where they are.
They are found, but I’m still lost.