There has got to be a place things run off to when you can’t find them. I’ve decided.
The washer or dryer eats socks all the time at my house and I don’t complain too much. It’s expected now and again. Even angry washing, drying monsters have to eat, don’t they?
But what about jewelry? That gold post from the back of a favorite diamond stud that isn’t attached to the back like it should be. The dreaded dig through the jewelry box to find that your favorite “pair” of earrings has now been reduced to the dreadful status of “loner”, aka “never to be worn again”. Or what about the necklace that you could’ve sworn you put back on its proper hook, and after a thorough search of the bedroom and bathroom, can’t locate?
I’m in such a situation today. And it’s driving me mad.
About three years ago, I had a dream about a silver embossed, heart-shaped locket on a sturdy dog-tag-like chain. I was captivated by this locket immediately. I combed jewelry stores, antique fairs, mall chains, and couldn’t find what I was looking for. I wasn’t about to settle for just any locket. I wanted the quarter-size, antique looking, smooth feeling, locket from my dream.
And I was lucky enough to find it on a random trip to the mall (which don’t happen often as I try to steer clear). An antique fair had set up booths in the center and as I walked by a counter I caught sight of “it”. It was beautiful and exactly as I pictured in in my dreams. Better, even, because I could touch it and hold it in my hands. The word “kindred” comes to mind.
So I wake up this morning, decide the locket would go great with my outfit…but the locket is not hanging on its hook as it should be. The dog-chain-like necklace is there, but with no heart-shaped locket attached. I’m bummed.
I search the entire box. Twice. I check the bathrooms, the floor beneath my dresser and my bed, my car glove compartment, pockets and pouches in every single purse I own, my luggage, my coat pockets. And it’s not there. It’s not anywhere.
I want my locket back. I want to know where it vanished to. Is it lonely and cold, shivering in the early autumn air? Does it long to be looped from my neck again, safe and close to my heart?
Maybe it’s with all the other lost things in some distant place having a margarita, celebrating clavicle freedom from its oppressors.