Wednesday, August 10, 2011
There is a bowl on my dresser in which I keep lost things.
I find them in the strangest places; sidewalk cracks, road side grass ditches, parks, supermarket parking lots, under leaves or scribbling graffiti on public restroom stalls. Some are just pieces of a greater whole, others just unwanted anymore. Some forgotten. Some dropped. Most of them are just lost and seldom cast shadows.
I put them in my pocket to carry around, feeling their edges like puzzle pieces to see where they fit. They rarely fit anywhere, so at the end of the day they join the rest in the grey and red domicile of lost things.
My boys find it fascinating to dump them on the bed, a small pile we pick through. They hold them to the light looking for clues on what they might go to.
We make up stories on whom they belong to, giving them fantastical names. A spring obviously came from a low flying observational platform of scientists from some distant planet. The scientists have long necks due to gravitational differences in our astrological locations.
A button from the coat of a pirate, because the beach is only 4 hours away and he might have took a wrong turn. A ball once played with by the queen of a colony of ants. The arm of a toy soldier. A note, I have never opened. A thimble, a bent tie tack, microchip key chain, a ring, all sorts of amazing things.
Every once in a while when we are telling their stories once more to them we notice that one or more is missing. This is a reason for celebration so we serve ice cream and soda and dance until our feet hurt. All the remaining lost things line up for a parade and we bang on the bedposts to add a little music, for we like to dream that one more lost thing has found its way home again.
Theirs are our most favorite stories of all.