“You lost me!” it cries out from the junk bag.
Lost things are seldom kind in their return. The relief of reunion momentary when weighed against the hours spent searching for it- the lost thing. I think of cushions overturned, bags shaken and seats thoroughly examined. Frustration beaded upon my brow as I looked for that i-phone cable.
I reached gingerly into the bag of junk confounded by sudden discovery, this reunion with the lost thing. My beloved, an i-phone cord, connecting me to all that is my life, in the midst of a disparate band of objects, was there crying out to me. After two weeks of desperation turned into mourning and then resignation until at last I walked into the light of the Apple store with its eager helpful teenage associates and found a replacement.
“Don’t buy a new one. Pray to St. Anthony,” my devout Catholic grandmother would offer. But I don’t believe in Saint Anthony anymore. So many lost things.
Please come around.
My i-phone cable has been lost and must be found!
Until today, after a new one waits unopened in the car, my beloved has returned. The unexpected sight of the slender snake of a white wire raising its USB connection as a rattler heralding danger.
“You lost me,” it hisses mocking my newly purchased cable.
Lost things. So many lost things: the places, the little rings and charms, the names, the bittersweet memories of my grandmother’s voice. I wonder how many things we lose in a lifetime. We are transformed by loss, shaped by the absence of a beloved, and surprised when lost things return.
And don't they always return? Maybe not in a bag of junk, but in memory. Unexpected startling memories that beg us to make room for reunion. We stand in the middle of a crowded room struck by the profile of a woman who could easily be our grandmother. They call out to us, not with menace, but if we listen more closely with an offer to be opened and shaped by the bittersweet reunion-- whatever its chosen time, place, or vehicle.
So many lost things in a lifetime. So many moments of reunion if we could only welcome them, reach into the bag, invite them back into our lives like the words of an old prayerful rhyme still distantly familiar.
Please come around.
Much has been lost and must be found.