Lost Things
David Henson
My glasses aren’t on the side table by the recliner, so I figure I’ll read the morning paper after they find me. I take my coffee into the kitchen and sit in one of the two chairs with a view of the bird feeder. Laura and I always had feeders, in the early years even making up a game called strip-birdwatching. The rules were simple, and there were no losers.
A pair of cardinals swoops in and takes turns feeding each other. It’s sweet moment but always looks a little violent to me. When I stand, they streak away as if fleeing a hawk.
Dumping what’s left of the coffee in the sink, I notice my glasses perched on the counter, my new motto validated again. Don’t look for lost things. They’ll find you sooner or later.
Years ago, Yorkie didn’t yip to come in. Laura and I were still together. She and my daughter walked the neighborhood, and I searched farther away in the car. When we got back home, Yorkie was sleeping on the WELCOME. I should’ve known then, but I’ve learned a lot of things too late. I can still see the pup jumping into Sally’s arms. It wasn’t a tall leap.
I decide to get some laundry sloshing before reading the paper. In the bedroom to retrieve the basket with arms and legs dangling over the sides, I notice my wallet isn’t on the dresser. A moment of panic tempts me to yank open drawers, fling clothes from the closet, worm through the car. Instead I take a breath and, while I’m loading the washer, the wallet falls from yesterday’s pants.
I’m settling in on the recliner when my phone rings. “Sally, how wonderful to hear from you,” I say, but dread quickly shoves aside my exhilaration, and I ask if everything’s OK. Then I hear my granddaughter in the background but can’t tell if she’s giggling or sobbing.
My daughter tells me their cat, Furry, is missing. My son-in-law is away on a trip, and can I come help look. I start to tell her Furry will turn up, but stop myself.
… Sally greets me at the door, holding a squirming cat. “Guess you don’t need me.” I hesitate before starting to turn.
My daughter clears her throat and tells me to stay a little while. She might have emphasized little, but I focus on stay.
Frannie shouts “Boo!” and jumps out from behind her mother. “I’m cooking lunch,” my granddaughter says. “Are you Grandpa?”
“Sure I am, Sweetie. Don’t you remember? You’ve grown so much!”
I step toward my daughter and lift my arms, but she holds Furry between us. As we head for the kitchen, she lowers the cat to the floor.
Frannie makes three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, pretty much mangling the bread in the process. I take a bite. Frannie asks if I think she’s a good cook.
Sally launches an arced eyebrow at me. Unsure of her meaning, I smile and give Frannie a thumbs up. She squeals and tries to imitate my gesture but raises three fingers.
As we eat, I’m tempted to ask Sally if Jim travels a lot, but decide I’d better keep my nose firmly planted in my own business. My daughter and I both focus on Frannie as we eat our sandwiches. To absorb an awkward moment when the hum of the refrigerator is far too prominent, I fold my napkin into something resembling a chef’s hat and tell Frannie her mother used to wear one like it when she helped in the kitchen. “Remember, Sally?” My daughter’s lips twitch. Frannie puts on the hat, which leans like the Tower of Pisa.
After a bit, I figure it’s time for me to not wear out my welcome. As I go to the front door, Furry streaks ahead of me, apparently chasing dust particles in a sunbeam. I reach into my pocket but my keys aren’t there. Frannie jangles toward me. After handing me the keys, she holds up three fingers, and I do the same.
“I can’t tell you how good it’s been seeing you, Honey,” I say. As I start to leave, Frannie says she’ll cook pancakes next time. I tell her I hope so and look at my daughter.
“Furry has gotten out before, Dad. He never goes far. I knew he’d come back.”
I search her eyes for the meaning behind her words and see a glimmer of something I've hoped would find me.
David Henson
My glasses aren’t on the side table by the recliner, so I figure I’ll read the morning paper after they find me. I take my coffee into the kitchen and sit in one of the two chairs with a view of the bird feeder. Laura and I always had feeders, in the early years even making up a game called strip-birdwatching. The rules were simple, and there were no losers.
A pair of cardinals swoops in and takes turns feeding each other. It’s sweet moment but always looks a little violent to me. When I stand, they streak away as if fleeing a hawk.
Dumping what’s left of the coffee in the sink, I notice my glasses perched on the counter, my new motto validated again. Don’t look for lost things. They’ll find you sooner or later.
Years ago, Yorkie didn’t yip to come in. Laura and I were still together. She and my daughter walked the neighborhood, and I searched farther away in the car. When we got back home, Yorkie was sleeping on the WELCOME. I should’ve known then, but I’ve learned a lot of things too late. I can still see the pup jumping into Sally’s arms. It wasn’t a tall leap.
I decide to get some laundry sloshing before reading the paper. In the bedroom to retrieve the basket with arms and legs dangling over the sides, I notice my wallet isn’t on the dresser. A moment of panic tempts me to yank open drawers, fling clothes from the closet, worm through the car. Instead I take a breath and, while I’m loading the washer, the wallet falls from yesterday’s pants.
I’m settling in on the recliner when my phone rings. “Sally, how wonderful to hear from you,” I say, but dread quickly shoves aside my exhilaration, and I ask if everything’s OK. Then I hear my granddaughter in the background but can’t tell if she’s giggling or sobbing.
My daughter tells me their cat, Furry, is missing. My son-in-law is away on a trip, and can I come help look. I start to tell her Furry will turn up, but stop myself.
… Sally greets me at the door, holding a squirming cat. “Guess you don’t need me.” I hesitate before starting to turn.
My daughter clears her throat and tells me to stay a little while. She might have emphasized little, but I focus on stay.
Frannie shouts “Boo!” and jumps out from behind her mother. “I’m cooking lunch,” my granddaughter says. “Are you Grandpa?”
“Sure I am, Sweetie. Don’t you remember? You’ve grown so much!”
I step toward my daughter and lift my arms, but she holds Furry between us. As we head for the kitchen, she lowers the cat to the floor.
Frannie makes three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, pretty much mangling the bread in the process. I take a bite. Frannie asks if I think she’s a good cook.
Sally launches an arced eyebrow at me. Unsure of her meaning, I smile and give Frannie a thumbs up. She squeals and tries to imitate my gesture but raises three fingers.
As we eat, I’m tempted to ask Sally if Jim travels a lot, but decide I’d better keep my nose firmly planted in my own business. My daughter and I both focus on Frannie as we eat our sandwiches. To absorb an awkward moment when the hum of the refrigerator is far too prominent, I fold my napkin into something resembling a chef’s hat and tell Frannie her mother used to wear one like it when she helped in the kitchen. “Remember, Sally?” My daughter’s lips twitch. Frannie puts on the hat, which leans like the Tower of Pisa.
After a bit, I figure it’s time for me to not wear out my welcome. As I go to the front door, Furry streaks ahead of me, apparently chasing dust particles in a sunbeam. I reach into my pocket but my keys aren’t there. Frannie jangles toward me. After handing me the keys, she holds up three fingers, and I do the same.
“I can’t tell you how good it’s been seeing you, Honey,” I say. As I start to leave, Frannie says she’ll cook pancakes next time. I tell her I hope so and look at my daughter.
“Furry has gotten out before, Dad. He never goes far. I knew he’d come back.”
I search her eyes for the meaning behind her words and see a glimmer of something I've hoped would find me.