The plan was to leave early for our drive to Oregon. Alf wanted to avoid the rush hour. I wanted to get there quickly to see the autumn leaves. Every hour that went by meant another leaf was falling to the ground and I was missing the spectacle.
We were on time with our plans until I couldn’t find my wedding ring. I looked in all the usual places. Nothing.
Time was ticking. The cars were backing up on the freeway. I could feel them.
I stopped breathing.
“I usually check all pockets,” I mumbled.
I doubled my search efforts. Every closet. The seats of furniture. Under towels in the linen closet. In shoes. Under the bed. I discovered a pair of boots there, but no ring.
Maybe I did donate it to charity.
If I did, I was going to be mature about it.
I was going to Oregon.
I would call the Cancer Society to see if they found a ring. Maybe they were holding it. People can be nice that way. Sometimes.
I wasn’t going to worry about it.
If worse came to worse, surely our homeowner’s insurance would cover it.
So we got in the car and were almost out of the city when I said, “Stop! I can’t go. This is going to ruin my vacation.”
“Mine too,” Alf said.
We turned back home.
It was now 9 a.m. Smack in the middle of rush hour.
I re-doubled my search efforts. The more I looked in all the same places the more insane I felt.
“Have you checked the clothes you packed?’ Alf said suddenly.
No, I hadn’t.
I unzipped the suitcase, pulled out two jackets – checked the pockets – nothing.
I pulled out a third jacket. There was my ring snuggled in the pocket.
Alf and I were so relieved we felt like dancing the tango in the driveway.