The World of Lost Things

The other day, I was thinking about things I've lost over the years--I don't mean this in a dramatic "all the love in the world" way, I literally mean where do all the things we lose go? 

For instance, a couple of months ago, I bought myself a pink water jug and then one day, it was gone. I didn't use it anywhere but my room (I get thirsty at night) but it wasn't there when I got home one day. It wasn't in the kitchen, either. When I moved to Taft from Alabang back in 2010, I packed two big boxes of books and when I moved back I stuffed them all into dozens of random bags. The bags are in my room, emptied, washed and hung but where are the books? In 2009, my then-boyfriend got me this silver necklace with a heart-shaped pendant. I don't--cannot--recall ever taking it off but the day we broke up, I remember it not being there. Some days, out of sheer curiosity I look in the pockets of old bags--just to check if it's there. There are some things that we lose but don't leave and leave but don't lose. 

Like Keav's cross necklace--which I wore all the time and took off only once last week. On the way home, I remember Keav handing it back to me. I know how it felt in my hand--the way worn wood and thread stuck to each other and then to my sweaty palm. The last thing I recall doing was slipping it into my pocket and thinking I'd wear it when we got to my house. As I searched frantically for it the next evening, I realized the skirt I was wearing didn't have any pockets.

I wonder if there is a place--some air pocket in the time-space continuum--where all the lost things go; if there were such a place it would be one that is lost itself. 

I'm ending this with one of my favorite poems by Szymborska about lost things. :)

A Speech at the Lost-And-Found

by Wislawa Szymborska

I lost a few goddesses while moving south to north,

and also some gods while moving east to west.

I let several stars go out for good, they can't be traced.

An island or two sank on me, they're lost at sea.

I'm not even sure exactly where I left my claws,

who's got my fur coat, who's living in my shell.

My sibings died the day I left for dry land

and only one small bone recalls that anniversary in me.

I've shed my skin, squandered vertebrae and legs,

taken leave of my sense time and again.

I've long since closed my third eye to all that,

washed my fins of it and shrugged my branches.

Gone, lost, scattered to the four winds. It still surprises me

how little now remains, one first person sing., temporarily

declined in human form, just now making such a fuss

about a blue umbrella left yesterday on a bus.