Out of pocket

I thought about the bills I had tucked in my pocket. It was money I had considered saving ... or spending on pizza. I hadn't yet decided. 

I knew I should have taken the time to slide the notes into the wallet. But I didn't want to find my purse. I could be careful I told myself as I walked the dog. They would stay put in my jacket with my phone, a car key, and my hand ... keeping everything sufficiently warm.

It was predictable. I had shuffled all these things several times during the stroll: taking care of Fido's business; pulling out my phone to take a picture of the sun setting; lathering, rinsing repeating. Eventually, I remembered the cash and decided to check. The smaller denomination was clinging to my phone but the larger bill was gone.

It wasn’t a lot but decided to trace our steps backward to see if it had somehow stayed on the road and not taken a ride on the wind.

I didn't find it. Not along the way or at any of the places we stopped. 

I think it is a premonition of hardship to come. I’d rather not say my mind works that way because I know it’s the way I unravel. 

The fear of knowing some loss more than money is always lying in wait.

I tamp down the feelings with something, anything, positive. 

“At least lost money would benefit a finder,” I think.

Which was not the comfort I took from the disappearance of a pocket knife my father had given me as a college graduation present. The one I wanted when I was seven, but he didn’t think I was mature enough to own as a second grader. 

Somehow, I lost it to the ocean the first summer holiday I’d taken as a newly minted adult. I comforted myself then that at least I’d always know about where it was if not exactly. 

Over the years I lost so many things I adored: 

Books I had lent, jewelry that had slipped off fingers, even a beaded cuff my daughter had just given were there and then gone, Like an “Irish Goodbye.”

I wish I could be anywhere else than on a gurney waiting for a needle to take its core samples. Squeezing my eyes shut hoping life after this is more about the finding than the losing. 

Still, I do what I always do. Which is letting my repetitive thoughts bargain with superstition. I will count the steps in each flight of stairs; each second between songs. I will play games of solitaire until my cards align.

I add a year to my age on purpose, wishing I’d never shredded the ARRP welcome letter (with its fantabulous offer of automobile trunk organizers) just for reaching the crest of old age.

Eventually, I know time and inevitability will tarnish its protective effects, which, I can be honest, had never ever been protective. Youth weights probabilities differently. 

But not now. I am not ready to put my affairs in order. But perhaps I am ready to sort through the junk in my trunk. Maybe I’ll find some of the treasures I’ve lost.