I kept the wedding ring on a chain around my neck. It presses warm against my chest when I'm taping drywall.
On the dresser is a mason jar of buttons from my grandmother's sewing box. My twin sister and I used to sort them by color and size. Now no one touches the jar.
In the truck glovebox, there's a compass my father gave me. It still points north, but I never go anywhere far.
The week after the clocks changed, I got a call from my ex-wife—first time in four years.
She asked if I still had the ring. I said it's right here, against my skin.
We met at the coffee shop at the end of Main Street. She was wearing a silver necklace with no pendant.
She said, "I've got nothing to keep you out this time." I took off my work gloves and showed her the ring.