I have this thing. A neat little personality trait. Whenever I’m out and I see an object, clearly lost, one half of a whole, like a glove or an ear pod, my brain goes to town. I visualise the mourner, bereft and confounded by their loss. Their fingers frantically fondle the forgotten folds of bags and pockets searching – nay – yearning, for this treasured thing that they know intuitively is lost and lost forever. The thing they seek has fallen and lies alone: an earring dangling on the nature strip; a sock discarded at the gym. One half of two no more.
Sadly, I know where it is but am unable to end the grief for whomever lost their thingy.
I shared my thoughts with Hank on our walk yesterday. I was inspired as I stepped over an ear pod, laid to rest in the gutter near the walking trail. Hank and I have been together so long that there is no room for judgement, so we share our thoughts freely – the intimate, the silly, the insane. Hank suggested I reclaim these things and start a website titled Ifoundoneofsomething.com to return the lost item to its rightful home. Now, don’t go clicking just yet, I have not made this website (and I’ve checked the domain name is free so feel free to help yourself). I will never do this because I am a combination of lazy and dismissive. I am also terrified that I will start picking things up and become a hoarder of the most unusual kind (who knows when you need one half of…anything). But it did make me feel better to think of lost things reunited. I still lament over a single lost mother of pearl earring. Those earrings were a gift from Hank given to me in what feels about half a century ago. I hold onto the one I have in the hope one day, I will hear a knock at the door and there it will be, my wayward earring, home again.
Or maybe, I just need to let it go and not be tethered to things material.
Or maybe, I have been inside too long.
Yeah. I wonder what Drew Barrymore is doing.
I heard she just started a blog too – um, coincidence? I think not.
That’s the crazy coming out in me. It’s a crisp Autumn morning in Melbourne. Day four hundred million of isolation.
I’ve shifted the pot plants to new locations in the hope that they’ll share in whispered words what spot they like best. The gaps in the door, the floor and the louvre windows invite the cool air to pass through and into our cosy space. Bastards.
My daily routine consists of checking the porch five to ten times a day for surprise packages. I’ve eagerly been awaiting the arrival of a Matte Stephens print. I watched with nail biting anticipation as it departed Kentucky for Nashville. After Nashville, it sunned itself for two weeks in Miami (Spring break?), then flew to Houston, then to LA (spent a week there checking out the strip), then on it went to Sydney where it luxuriates for reasons unknown. An enviable journey in this time of isolation.
I check the fridge eleven to fifteen times a day at least. Opening and closing the door in the hope that when I reopen it, some minutes later, new food options will have appeared. I work for a bit, then realise the dishwasher needs to be emptied, stacked and emptied again, all achieved between emails and team chats.
There is no such thing as normal – if there ever was.
I don’t know how I will go back to this future normal, whatever it looks like. But if it’s long commutes and busy office days, I’m not sure how I’ll cope. I’ll miss home, miss the stray wanderings from porch to kitchen, with pats to Ozzy on the way.
There needs to be a better way to work, and to live. One slower. One with moments appreciated. I’m sure we’ve all learned something about ourselves during these times of isolation. What will you carry over into the future, once all this is done?
Now, off to see whose blog is better – mine or Drew’s (insert smiley face). Maybe I’ll get lucky and find a dropped earring on the way.
Gertie Puckles 