Missing Things

I’ve been thinking a lot about things I’m missing.

The pair to more than one lone sock,

bobby pins,

scrunchies,

books I once loved,

cheap forever 21 blouses,

favorite hoodies.

Some of these items are lost literally, others have simply lost their essence — they may be damaged or perhaps they simply don’t shine like they once did.

When things are first lost, a sort of emptiness hits you. A strange void. The epitome of lack thereof.

This feeling passes with time, but the memory is enough to remind me of exactly what my life was like when that item was still relevant. It’s as though I time-travel back to the version of myself I was, whenever I was.

Things have no real value, but the power to make us remember.

When I think of my mustard yellow scrunchie, I think of the summertime.

I think of the long braids I held up with it every day. I think of all the days at work, with friends, with family, and nights asleep I spent with my braids in a top knot.

All the feelings I felt and experiences endured come flooding back to my memory as though they are happening in real-time. If I didn't know any better I’d think it was present tense.

When I think about my paperback copy of S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders, I’m back in the spring of my 13th year. 8th grade. Young, doe-eyed, and green. I am internally conflicted and One Direction obsessed. I remember reading the book in one sitting, crying at its end. That day I deemed it my favorite book — still holds true.

When I think of The Miraculous Adventure of Edward Tulane, a children's book by Kate Dicamillo, I am brought back to a day in late April to early May. One of my dearest friends and I are sat in a Starbucks, by the window, sipping on latte’s and “studying” for an exam. In avoiding studying, we discussed all the things that made our hearts happy and blood boil. We reminisced about our childhoods, drove to a book store, and bought all the books that shaped us as children — one being Edward Tulane. I don't think I ever felt more like a child in my entire life than I did on this day.

This goes out to my single red sock. To my Washington D.C. sweatshirt — now battered and bruised from years of use and washing — I’m still thinking of you still and all the happy moments I spent with you.

To all my missing things,

I’m always thinking of you,

remembering you,

relishing in the time we spent together.

— k.sona