Inventory

I'm looking for—

well.

It was important five minutes ago.

Small enough to disappear into the geography of this house,

which has become less a floor plan

and more a museum curated by a woman

who couldn't bear to throw anything away.

I check the junk drawer first,

which is optimistic.

Three takeout menus

for restaurants that closed years ago.

A birthday candle shaped like a seven.

Nine rubber bands.

A tiny screwdriver I keep because

you once fixed my glasses with it

and declared yourself

"the least qualified optometrist in North America."

Not it.

Three spoon rests.

Three.

Who wakes up one morning and thinks,

You know what my life is missing?

Additional places to set a wooden spoon.

Apparently me.

I stack them together like evidence.

Maybe people who own three spoon rests

shouldn't be trusted with permanence.

Next cabinet.

A bowl full of buttons.

Hundreds of them.

Every size.

Every color.

I have never sewn a thing in my life.

Not a hem.

Not a button.

Not a patch.

Yet I've been carrying around

the possibility of becoming

someone who could fix things.

Funny.

Bookmarks.

So many bookmarks.

Pressed flowers laminated in plastic.

Museum gift shop bookmarks.

One from a bookstore that doesn't exist anymore.

I can't find the thing I'm looking for,

but if someone needed to save their place

in thirty-seven different novels,

I'd be indispensable.

There's a receipt folded inside one.

Your handwriting.

You made the grocery list

because you hated the way I grouped things.

"Vegetables aren't a personality trait."

You'd reorganize the cart

like you were solving a puzzle.

I'd wander off

because I forgot we needed milk

and came back with cinnamon gum

and a candle that smelled like rain.

You'd sigh the sigh

that secretly meant

I think you're ridiculous.

I always heard it.

I just liked it.

Still not it.

Hall closet.

Extension cords

whose purposes have outlived my memory.

A single mitten.

Three umbrellas,

none of which were here

the day we got caught in the rain

and ran laughing to the car

because you insisted

being soaked builds character.

I argued pneumonia

also builds character.

You said,

"Exactly."

I won the argument.

You won the memory.

The thing has to be here somewhere.

I know it does.

You're better at this.

You'd stand in the doorway,

arms folded,

watching me excavate my own life.

You'd wait exactly thirty seconds.

Then you'd move one book.

Lift one towel.

Open the drawer I'd already opened twice.

"There."

Like magic.

Like it had wanted to be found by you.

I used to accuse you

of cheating.

Now I think

maybe you just knew me better

than I knew where I put things.

Bedroom.

An earring without its match.

A charger to something obsolete.

The sweatshirt I kept

because it still smells almost—

No.

Not anymore.

That's the cruel thing about time.

It doesn't ask permission

before replacing someone

with detergent.

I'm getting irritated now.

Not because I can't find it.

Because I should've.

Because why do I have

three spoon rests,

hundreds of buttons,

forty bookmarks,

birthday candles for ages

I'll never be again—

but I couldn't keep

one person.

What is the ratio there?

How many unnecessary things

equal someone deciding

they don't love you anymore?

Was I too cluttered?

Too loud?

Too many unfinished hobbies,

half-read books,

stories that took scenic routes,

opinions about coffee,

collections of things

that only made sense to me.

Did I become another object?

Another thing that seemed charming

until it needed somewhere permanent to live.

I open another drawer.

Tape.

Twine.

Expired coupons.

Your favorite pen.

How?

I haven't seen that pen in months.

I hold it

like it's trying to tell me something.

Like if I click it enough times

you'll walk in

asking why I've turned the house upside down.

You'd laugh first.

Then help.

Then find the thing

before I remembered

what the thing even was.

I stop.

Because—

what was I looking for?

I honestly can't remember.

I've spent the last hour

finding everything

except the reason I started.

The spoon rests.

The buttons.

The bookmarks.

The grocery list.

The pen.

Your laugh tucked inside ordinary objects

like spare change in winter coats.

Maybe the thing wasn't missing.

Maybe it was just an excuse.

Maybe I needed to search every room

before I admitted

I wasn't looking for something.

I was looking

for the person

who could always find me.