Since my divorce nearly 15 years ago, I haven’t wore rings very often. Beyond a tricolored three ring band, and my engagement ring and Tiffany anniversary band, that I occasionally wear because I love them, my hands generally remain unadorned.
And I’m perfectly ok with that. Most of the time.
Sometimes, though, I feel a little naked with my bare fingers. I imagine myself with the weight of a wide band on my ring finger and consider what style ring I might want to buy for myself – would it be silver or gold? Smooth or patterned or maybe even hammered? Maybe something with my sons’ birthstones inlaid?
At this point in the internal discussion with myself, I generally shut down the conversation. I most certainly don’t need another thing, especially not a self indulgent jewelry purchase.
Yet, I found myself peeking into windows at antique and jewelry stores on my recent trip, looking for a ring that might speak to me. I wondered about the price of lab grown diamonds and vintage pieces featured in shop windows and if there might be something appealing at the arts and crafts market on Eyre Square…
Eventually, though, I decided that I should hold on to my money and wear the rings that I already possess. Buying a piece of jewelry simply wasn’t a necessity.
The afternoon we flew out of Dublin was pretty low key. We had arrived with plenty of time for some duty free shopping, a bite to eat and a last pint. When I finally sat down at the gate to wait for boarding, I glanced around for an outlet to make sure my devices were fully charged, (a compulsion of mine), when I noticed something on the table connected to my seat.
A ring.
A silver colored connected stack of three rings or bands, actually. Simple, clean looking with a wider center band that had some texture nestled between two smooth more narrow bands. I picked it up and, struck by how light it was, immediately assumed it was made from some sort of material like stainless steel. I tried it on my right hand ring finger.
It fit me perfectly.
For the next 90 minutes, I remained in my seat waiting for someone to come back to retrieve the piece of jewelry. When this anticipated unification between rightful owner and ring didn’t occur and it was time to board my flight, the ring came with me.
I guess it’s mine now.
Life sure is weird sometimes.
PS. After snapping a photo of the text on one of the ring’s bands and zooming in, I determined the ring is Mexican silver. I will take good care of it for as long as it belongs to me.
DelSo 
You gotta listen to the voices.
Only vaguely related: last fall, my wife fell, and among other things, broke her pinkie. Her hand was so swollen that they had to cut off her wedding band from her ring finger. It was the right and necessary thing. I know it made her sad at the time. And occasionally, it me oddly melancholy. Eventually, she’ll get it repaired. In a functional sense, it doesn’t matter – we’re just as married, 27 years on the 15th of May.