I looked under the bed, the bean bag chair with the pink flowers and the one with imprinted with zebras and elephants.  I was trying to find it.  Any indication that it still exists. On my knees, back bent, butt in the air, ear to the floor. It wasn’t there.  After looking in all the obvious places, I checked the mirror. Oddly, it wasn’t there either. It’s me that’s gone. I’m dis-the-peered, as you say about something gone and un-findable. But be assured, buddy, you can still see me, feel gma and can always depend on this gma’s love and attention.  But unknown to you, the cozy and kind shell of your grandma is empty, it seems as though all of her innards have been placed out of reach in an unknown location. I lost my self, buddy. And can’t find me. It’s my work, no one else can find one’s self. So if I am preoccupied this week, please understand I am on a private and harried journey; going within with rabid worry and fearing not finding what I seek.  But I will check all the crooks and crannies, nooks and nannies, books and panties. You just go on an play, my precious, and be kind to your sister.

It not the first time I’ve been lost, misplaced, gotten invisible. And I know others who get lost on a regular basis, I know some that have never been found and others that remain the walking lost unaware that seeking is a possibility.  I say this, as if evoking Shel Silverstein. It’s part of life.  Is life, maybe. I’m jabbering to fill the air and this space with tiny black marks that put sounds in our heads, ideas in our hearts splashing ink all over the damn place.  Do you even know what ink is? I spin stories in busy pulsing minds; proving that I’m not totally gone, just some essential pieces misplaced, in crisis; still able to talk in public in a nice gma voice.  Who am I now?  That’s the question. What do I do? Does it matter? And do I matter to myself? Reassurance from outside this sugared shell steeps into a crusty grandma goodness, basting it in the sweetest of juices. Friends’ support and words of wisdom help maintain a sweet old grandma for you. A commodity, like bread, laundry detergent, bought for the lap, embraces, attention, and dependable supply of support. I’m a set services offered at all hours, anytime and always to you and your sister,  But, like a breast feeding mother, get sucked away, until inside, I’m barely here.

I wonder if a core can dissolve and disappear and go the way of a solid block of mineral salts in the pasture, licked at for months then surprisingly is just not there one day? The horse stops at the spot to visit daily then one day doesn’t anymore. The space becomes empty space. For the sake of nurturing the horse the mineral block is licked to gone-ness; but, absorbed.  Absorbed into hooves, mane and coat with maybe a little peed out. Used up, gone, but not useless, just changed form. Has my self been absorbed, I wonder? Into what? Components of my wobbly jelly-core seep in then fan out, further each time, like the sea. Catch me up, examine me or I slip away, sticking to the sandy shore an invisible mass.  Un-discoverable; a changeling.

I”ll check into the Hilton in Scotts Valley.  I read that it needs business. Its lovely inside, stacked rock fireplace, chandeliers, an artificial palace chock-full of beds, food and housekeepers.  The perfect escape.  I’ll take grandma with me and get her some rest.  I’m sure that someone will find you and toss you a couple of cookies, draw you a bath, remind you to wipe your butt and read you stories. Just for a couple of days, until the shock of being gone passes, I’ll rest.  Until the crust cools and the sore back eases.  I’ll invite my friends and we’ll climb into big beds with fluffy linens to rock, and sing and make up stories.  The healing can’t begin until I lay there awhile; all alone, and climb around in the emptiness.  Examine it.

When I check out, I’ll bring you the unused portions of complimentary products; soap, shampoo, lotion, tiny jars of jam with checkered lids and miniature bottles of Tabasco Sauce.  Or maybe I won’t bring you anything.  I’ll be over that by then.  Lovingly, gma

(Dreaming about spending a wickedly wonderful weekend away from you.  Or I’ll completely go nuts!) This was just a little bit nuts.

One thought on “Lost

  1. I sincerely hope you have saved all your “Letters to Montana” so that they can be compiled into a journal through life or a book, to which you will have so ably given a perfect title, to remind yourself that you are a survivor. To remember what a strong, wonderful daughter you are, able to get through this time testing. You are loved.

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