My wedding band was missing. It felt strange. Much like losing a tooth, I became overly preoccupied with space unoccupied. Freud had said that there are no such things as accidents. In our eighteen years of marriage, I’d never misplaced my ring. Had I sent myself a subliminal message? We had been quarreling a lot lately.

I returned to our bedroom, pulled the covers off the bed, and threw the linens in the air. The sheets flew around like large, blank flags. I anticipated seeing the ring soar high above the sheets, or hearing it ping as it hit the wood floor. But nothing—no fling, no ping, no ring.

The ring had been on my hand yesterday, which was Saturday. I remember seeing it. I’d been home all day, reading the paper, doing chores and cutting the grass. Perhaps I’d lost it while mowing? One out of every two marriages ends in divorce. That statistic played in my thoughts, grabbed me by the arm, and escorted me outside, where I scoured the yard searching for anything shiny. I saw nothing. My stomach knotted.

I went into the garage and pulled out one of the big, black plastic bags of lawn clippings, and dumped it onto the same lawn from which I’d carefully raked and collected it. The ring had to be here. But it wasn’t. I checked a second bag, and again, no ring. In a matter of minutes, I’d emptied three bags, but found nothing more than two pennies and a piece of tin.

Kicking and pawing my way through three piles of clippings, I continued tossing everything everywhere. There are no accidents. Did I not want to find it? Could that be the problem? What would Laura think? I felt defensive, confused, and conflicted. The only thing I knew for certain was that I needed to shower and remove all the itchy grass clippings from my legs and arms.

I walked inside. Shoes and socks were deposited on the living room carpet. My shirt and pants joined the sheets jumbled on the bedroom floor. The house was a mess—outer reflected inner. I trudged into the bathroom and let my underwear fall onto the floor.

I climbed into the shower stall and turned on the hot water. Let a stream rain down on my outstretched hand. When the water became steamy, I reached over and turned on the cold. Then, I moved under the spray, closed my eyes, and allowed the water to pour over my head and face, and down my shoulders. It felt good, but I didn’t.

As I turned to grab the soap, I saw my ring lying neatly on the grate of the drain.

I knelt and picked it up. It was smooth and warm, and when I slid it on my finger it felt solid and familiar—and right.

There are no accidents. The words sounded quite different this time. While rinsing off, I heard Laura’s voice. “Honey, what happened to the lawn?” She paused. “And to our bedroom?” There wasn’t a trace of anger in her voice. She sounded almost musical.

“Oh, that...” I answered, as I reached over and turned off the water.