Every time you misplace something you hear your mother’s voice in the back of your head.
Use your eyes, child, she says.
You must not be looking very hard; it’s probably right there, it didn’t just grow legs and abandon you.
You hear her when you lose your phone charger, or your notebook, or your favourite pair of jeans
And you hear her when you lose the intangible things
like Peace
and Belonging
and Contentment.
You wish she were right,
that these things were right in front of you.
You wish you could tear apart the couch cushions or dig through your centre console, crack yourself open, and find them hiding there
waiting for you to cross their path again.
Because once, not too long ago, Peace was right here,
intertwined with your fingers, running its thumb along the peaks of your knuckles, while Belonging wove its hand in your hair
assuring you of your own existence
promising you that this isn’t all a mistake
that you are in the right place.
And Contentment–
Contentment was the pillow that always felt human.
Aligning every exhale with your own
allowing you to rest.
It was right here,
all of it.
And you keep retracing your steps, and checking under your bed, and racking your brain for any memory
any clue
as to where it all went.
But you’ve looked everywhere this time
you promise.
Maybe Peace and Belonging and Contentment are actually gone.
Maybe they abandoned you after all.