I found my lost ring this morning. I had been sad with the idea of it being lost forever. I bought it in Paris, in the Sunday's market on Edgar Quinet, like eight winters ago, my ex-husband was with me (it was the last time we were in Paris together).  An immigrant Moroccan woman who had just arrived to the city sold it to me. It was hers, she had worn it in her tattooed finger all over the way from home, but now she needed more to buy food than carrying a ring. 
This ring (now of mine) has a big red damaged rock on the top. This morning when I found it in one of my unfrequently used bags the sensation was of a very elegant happiness as if I were tasting and smelling the sweetest and juicy red plum on earth.