Lost

 I believe that with the time spent looking for lost or misplaced objects, I could have written the Great American novel or mastered Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto. Tonight I opened my desk drawer for my check-book and there it wasn’t. Couldn’t locate it in the 5 other possible locations my weary brain could imagine and pictured hours of ransacking the house ahead. And then tried a small backpack I carry around sometimes and lo and behold, there it was! 

Looking for things is among my top five not-favorite things to do, along with school report cards, reading depressing news, discovering a new mysterious and apparently unsolvable ache and pain in my body, and waking up at 2 in the jet-lagged morning with a full load of classes to teach the next day. As anyone my age can tell you, it happens more and more. Thank goodness I have never been the “now where are my keys?” type, but I’m edging closer. 

Meanwhile, just found out that report cards are due soon, the more children are suffering in detention camps, that my neck pain hasn’t gone away and that Singapore time is still in my confused body. But hey, I did find my checkbook and I’m on the edge of my seat hoping Michael Cohen’s whistle-blowing will reveal the truth once-and-for-all and that the guy who so needs to leave will start packing his bags soon. 

That is, if he can remember where he put his suitcase.