The folding table in my basement has one short leg. I prop it up with a matchbook. It was my father's, from when he used to build model trains in the basement.
I worked Thanksgiving at the bank. The only customer was a widow, depositing her pension check. She wore a gold wedding ring on a thin chain around her neck.
The next week, I took my own ring off my finger. Forty years of marriage, and my knuckles had grown too big for it. I bought a chain at the drugstore for four dollars.
Now the ring sits against my collarbone. I tap it sometimes when I'm counting cash. It's warmer than my skin.
I keep a photograph of all five of us at the train station. The youngest is seventy now. We haven't been together in that station since 1965.
The cash drawer is heavy with quarters. I've handled coins for fifty years, but the ring on my chest is the only thing that has ever made me feel rich.
Some things are too precious to wear on your hand. You keep them close to your heart, where they can't be lost.