The Room of Lost Things

Photo by Nathan Wright on Unsplash

I started wondering how many things I’ve lost along the way, and how big a room would need to be to hold all the things if they could somehow magically be returned to me, and how long it would take for me to go through that room and how that would feel. Every umbrella, every quarter or dime, every toy, every hoodie. The first significant thing I remember losing was my grandmother, so she’d have to be there, and I don’t think I’d have any interest in moving onto the second thing for a very long time. 

Then there would be my cat Bosco who “went to a farm” when I was three, and my dog Lucky who “ran away” when I was eight - probably went to the same farm - and I don’t think I’d move onto the fourth thing for at least another few weeks. So already, just with three things I’m probably in the room for a couple of months. But I’m thinking this room would exist outside of normal time, so maybe that’s okay. Maybe two months in the lost room is like five minutes in the regular timeline. Since I’m making this whole thing up, let’s go with that. And knowing me, I’d get super Type A about all of it, so eventually I’d have to start sorting things like Lost People and Pets in one corner (I’d make it comfortable, duh), and Lost Money in some kind of container, Lost Toys in another. Finding my doll Suzy would be like finding a talisman from my early years, and I feel sure I’d want to spend some time leaning her back and watching her blue eyes with the thick-rimmed eyelashes close, and then sitting her back up to watch them open. I can almost feel her synthetic blonde hair in my hands, the smooth plastic of her face, and the weight of her bean-filled body. How did I ever lose her? Then there would be lost journals and artwork. I think I’d want to arrange things chronologically like some kind of museum of my life since we’re talking about people and tangible physical items, and not experiences.

Eventually I’d find Lost Feelings, like the feeling of safety and security and how that evaporated in a week. I feel pretty sure you can’t put those in a container, they’d probably just fly around the room. They’d be joined by lost ideas about myself and other people, especially people I loved. Around the teenage years maybe I’d find lost confidence and trust in almost everyone, including me. Right around then, I’d probably come upon lost innocence, but not the obvious kind, the kind you lose when someone takes something from you forcefully and no one believes you, or at least, the most important people don’t.

Obviously, also, there would be lost keys all over the place. 

Photo by Samantha Lam on Unsplash

Then there would be lost plans and paths not taken, or almost taken and then abandoned. The loss of that first love and how it breaks you like no other because you don’t know yet that you’re going to live through it. Then the loss of your own esteem for yourself because how could you feel anything but inward contempt if you allow someone to treat you so badly? This is the part where you find your first lost dream, even if it was a dream built on nothing but air because the dream was built around a person incapable of love. Actually, strike that, the dream was built around a person who could only ever love himself. 

Then there’s the loss of having any sense at all of why you’re here, why you exist, why it even matters, but to lose something you have to have something first, and the only thing you had was an idea that you were supposed to be helpful and docile and thin. And that you should smile more. That isn’t a lot to work with, so when you lost that you really were screwed for a while. Next, you’re going to come upon a few things that meant the world to you, like a photo album from your childhood with original photos no one else has, and your grandmother’s mirror which you paid to have restored and re-dipped in gold-leaf when you really couldn’t afford to do anything of the kind. You’re probably going to sob a little at this point, because that mirror is stupidly important to you because it was the only thing of hers you had. It meant something. Then there’s the art deco diamond necklace that belonged to your great aunt. Your mother gave that to you. You won’t have seen these things for twenty-five years because someone else decided to hold them hostage to keep you connected, and when you finally realized he was never ever going to give them back, you took the only thing you could. Something about your power and your dignity and a nice side of rage. 

Photo by Luis Villasmil on Unsplash

The next part is hard, because now you’re going to find your second dog, and you might as well know you’re going to disappear from the timeline for a good long stretch. There are a lot of walks to take, a lot of pets and treats to give, a lot of burying your face in that neck and wrapping your arms around that beast who loved you with everything he had for ten years and was lost to you in three hours. 

Eventually you’re going to come upon the biggest loss of all, but it’s okay, because the one thing you know is that everyone ended up intact, secure, loved. The kids are grown and they’re incredible, funny, kind. The thing you really lost in that scenario was your idea of how it needed to go. This next bin is full of the self-doubt you started to lose along the way. Not all of it, but the kind that was making you feel like maybe you couldn’t do it. Maybe it was all going to be too hard. You already know you did it and you’re doing it, so that’s a bin that can go out with the trash, no need to hold onto it. 

I kind of dread this next part, because there is your mom and even though you want nothing more than to have more time, or even one more conversation, writing the sentences is even too much. Some losses are like that, they rip you to the bone. But maybe you get to have this. A little more time. Another conversation now that she isn’t in pain anymore and you both understand more things about each other than you did when she was alive. You’re probably off the timeline for a good half hour. It’s going to take a year to say and do all the things you want to that you never did, like take a trip just the two of you, confide everything, laugh, cry, hug, forgive, maybe get a mani pedi. 

Whenever you emerge, you’re going to encounter the last loss, and that is the loss of the idea that you know a lot of things. You don’t know too many things at all, maybe just a couple of the very important ones, like love your fucking heart out and don’t take anything for granted.

Have I mentioned there are a million socks, but only one of each?

If you’d like to meet me in real time to talk about the people and things we lose along the way, and the insight we gain, I’ll be here 3/29/24 at 11:15am PST or you can wait for the Come As You Are podcast version. If you’d like to meet me in Portugal in June, there are still spots left and I’d love that so much.