By my third loop through the house ~ bedroom. bathroom, laundry room, living room, kitchen ~ I had progressed from confused to annoyed to down right pissed. This frantic forgetfulness happened far too often, but in no other aspect of my life. I can remember names and faces. I can recall minutia from three weeks ago that anyone else would have jettison from their brain when the first bit of new information took its place. My problem is losing the same item over and over. My house is apparently some a sort of Bermuda Triangle, swallowing up colorful bits of plastic
Constant replacements were getting expensive and I’m tired of being the butt of so many family jokes. Standing in the kitchen counter, I racked my brain for any clues. My hands splayed on either side of the sink, I drummed my fingers in frustration, hoping for some flash of insight. I rehashed the morning in my head, watching scenes unfold throughout the day. Where was I at which time, doing what? Nothing jogged my lost memory.
Baskets of clean clothes sat on the floor in front of the couch. Stomping down an already worn path, I toppled the contents onto the cushions. Flinging T-shirts and underwear around the room, patting down jeans and towels in an exasperated effort to find my missing glasses. They had vanished somewhere in my house along with orphan socks and loose change.
I had articles to write, and without those glasses the effort would be useless. They’re only drug store readers, but the eye strain caused by close computer work without them would bring on hellacious migraines. There was no other choice. My search was leaving me empty-handed. I needed to get new glasses. That would mean having to put up with more complaints about losing yet another pair and the waste of money to buy new ones.
A trip to the store required a shower, and a change out of my pajamas.
Standing under the hot stream, hoping it would wash away the cobwebs, I tried to relax. Stress can affect memory and I hoped I could still remember where I last left my glasses. Pouring a small puddle of pearlescent liquid into one palm, I rubbed my hands together, working the soap into a thick lather. As I reached up to smooth the shampoo through my hair, I dislodged a familiar object.
For Story Dam, an online writing community offering weekly and monthly writing prompts. This week’s theme is: Where is it?