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The Ring Vendor

I wandered the streets of Marrakech amidst the din of bargaining and the smell of spices and roasting meat. When I came upon the ring vendor, he beckoned me with gnarled hands, and his lips curled into a wistful smile. The men’s rings, with sides of ribbed silver or intricate scrollwork, held turquoise, rough-cut rubies, or amber cabochons. Though I loved the ruby ring, I could not buy it. When I’d held it, the breeze in the market had shifted, and a voice had said, “this was taken from a dead man, and only the dead shall wear it.”


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