Christmas Day is the anniversary of my greatest regret.

I’ve been blessed over the last decade to visit some amazing places, see some incredible sights and meet some wonderful people. There have been a few disappointments and expensive tourist traps, but overall, I really wouldn’t change a thing.

That said, I wish for just one do-over.

At this time last year, I was snorkeling in the deep blue Carribean waters off the coast of Belize. I’m not a strong swimmer, as my swims-like-a-fish brother helpfully reminded me, so I was a bit nervous as we splashed off the side of the boat into the warm, clear water.

Once I realized I wasn’t going to die a horrible drowning death, I quickly became enamored with the colorful fish, gliding stingrays and spirally conch shells that populated my new underwater world. I was so captivated, in fact, that I never noticed when my wedding ring slipped off my finger and drifted secretly to the ocean floor.

“So what.” you might say. “It was just a gold band. Go buy another.”

If it were only that simple.

The ring I wore for almost a decade was more than a metallic marker of my marital status. That plain gold band was my link to a loved one lost.

When my father died in 1998, my mom took the rings they had exchanged 20 years earlier, melted them together and gave me the gold. The wedding band my beautiful bride placed on my finger almost ten years before was forged from history, a round reminder of the love my parents shared and a promise of what was to come in my life.

Distraught, I searched the sandy bottom, hoping against hope to see a shiny reflection against the soft sea soil. I retraced my path as best I could, but my treasure was lost. I cursed and I cried.

When we celebrated our 10^th anniversary a few months later I was sans band, and my finger is still bare today.

You see, just any old ring simply won’t do.