The ring

I am madly searching through the rubbish. Ripping through full bin liners, contents slopping over my hands and fingers.

‘Christ,’ I murmur. An indeterminable liquid dribbles down my arm. The stench is foul, rancid. I cough.

‘Are you sure it’s in the rubbish?’ Pete calls from the verandah.

Stupid question. I ignore him.

‘Hun?’ he calls.

‘What?’

‘Are you sure you threw it out?

‘Of course I’m not bloody sure.’

There is no evidence to prove I threw away my most favoured, sentimental possession. Why I even took it out of its box, I’ll never know. The last thing I remember is placing the ring on my finger and thinking how god-awful ugly it actually is. One day, I’ll get it redesigned. But for now, my grandmother’s engagement ring stays as is. Then one of the kids called me, and I don’t remember what happened next.

‘Why would it be in the trash?’ Pete asks, his Texan drawl more pronounced than usual.

We don’t call it trash here, I silently scream. I want to punch him, a power-packed uppercut. But even I know it’s not his fault. My anger is irrationally misplaced.

I sigh.

‘Mum, what’s this?’ Faith asks. She’s standing next to her dad, on the verandah. In her hand she’s holding an emerald and diamond engagement ring. ‘Can I keep it?

‘NO!’ Pete and I yell at the same time.

 

Photo by Jens Johnsson on Unsplash