The Ring by Doug Bond

He couldn’t remember when it was exactly, the date she took off the ring and put it away for good. A couple years for sure, maybe four? He did remember the way she shimmied it off her finger spitting out the words “This isn’t mine!” and how she buried it under the tangle of earrings and cheap jewelry she kept in a small bowl by the bed. There was nothing he could do about it this time. Nothing. The afternoon when it first had been placed in his hands he’d felt a strange mix of unease and relief unwrapping the small blue velvet box out of plain yellowed paper. The ring had an almost magical way with light, dancing as if trapped inside. It was certainly far nicer than anything he could have afforded. The gesture from his mother-in-law had felt like a blessing, a way to set things right. She had offered it to him a couple weeks after they’d given her the news of their engagement. For thirty years, the ring had been sitting untouched in the recesses of her upper dresser drawer. Letting out a little laugh she had handed it to him with an eyebrow halfway raised, “That’s not much of a proposal, not in the traditional sense. Not without a ring.” He’d planned on buying one. That’s what he told her. On credit. He just hadn’t really worked it all through. Imagine that, she said, thirty years in the dark for such a lovely ring.

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