It was recommended to me that the topic of this entry should be Whitey Bulger.
I don't know nothin'.
I did lose my wedding ring a few weeks ago.
It was up in Vermont.
I have three hopes for that beautiful silver ring:
I hope it is not just wedged deep in the crack of a couch, to gather sticky lollipop shards and cracker crumbs to itself, until it becomes a Thing, hiding its nicked and worn shine from the light beneath layers of lint and stuff.
I hope it is lying on the fertile ground somewhere near a barn, in a place where sun and shade and water will bring wildflowers to bloom through its opening.
Or I hope it is in a place on a slope where thaw and Spring rains will tumble it down in stages until it finds its way to a brook, to a river, to the sea.
Of course, that last way will take it away forever.
The second way may cause it to become a projectile, lifted up and flung at deadly speed from the rotors of a lawn mower.
The first way, though least romantic, may bring it back home to me.
I'm going to go upstairs to see if we sell a ring that can hold its place until.