I rummaged through the Lost and Found box in the gym. It smells of old sneakers, unwashed socks, faded shorts. Could I find my bathing suit here? Perhaps, if I dig deep enough.
But no amount of searching through other people’s losses will give me what I am looking for - a box that would hold the people, places, names and dates that I have lost from year to year.
I lost my brother last December. He’s gone. I know well enough not to try to find him in the flesh, and yet he appears to me in thoughts. He comes from around the corner when I least expect him. We sometimes have conversations, though I do most of the talking. I want to tell him things and he listens.
I lose words, more and more often. What was the name of that author whose book I just read? Where did she go? I swore I would remember her. I was about to recommend her to my friends, and then, whoosh, she’s gone
And what about the year we went to Egypt. Excuse me. I have to think. That lapse may be normal - it was a while ago. But why do I have to concentrate to recall the precise years when each of my four children were born? I remember the birth pains when their heads first appeared. And then the euphoria. I would have thought that the year would be emblazoned in my mind forever.
Look over here. Here’s someone I know. What, oh what, is his name? How embarrassing when I find myself faking it by effusively saying “How are YOU?
That filigree silver pin, with the beautiful, sunlit stone that I received from my beloved Aunt Berthe. I lost it in the railroad station in Switzerland. I mourn its absence still.
How can I find what I’m looking for? Memory, memory is found at the bottom of the box. I hold on to it with all my might.
