This isn't the first time my mom lost her wedding ring. Thirty years ago, she lost it in our backyard as she and my dad frantically secured patio furniture during a storm. My sister and I searched for days afterward to no avail--but two years later, my dad shocked us all when he unearthed the ring in a flower bed.
That time she could take comfort in knowing that her ring had to be in our yard. This time it's lost in the labyrinth of the Art Fair.
I watch my mom's eyes fill with tears, and I feel responsible--I'm her host, her townie, her navigator. I could contact lost and found tomorrow, but I have to do something now, if only to ease the sad, worried look on my mom's face. My sister and I coax her to remember the last time she saw her ring. She can't recall, but she remembers feeling something small and heavy hit her foot as she pulled out her wallet to buy a pair of earrings.
I remember the purchase. It was at a booth in the Liberty Street Courtyard. Unfortunately, that is two miles from where we sit at dinner. With darkness and the fair's closing time rapidly approaching, we aren't well situated to run a ring search and rescue mission.