Not In My Old Kentucky Home

 

            It felt like any other day. My overall mood was optimistic. As I washed the potatoes, my attention shifted appropriately between the task, background music, and a subplot I had been tossing around for a character in a novel I had neglected for too long - interrupted by a flash of panic that my mammogram was due, and I hadn’t scheduled an appointment. I would peel the potatoes, put them on the stove, then consult the calendar in my purse regarding the mammogram question and make the appointment if necessary.

            When I opened the drawer by the stove, the mammogram completely escaped my mind. There, in the space where I expected to find my white-handled paring knife, I discovered an empty space. For six years, since my niece had broken the handle on my yellow knife and replaced it with the white version, I had kept that knife in the same space – right, front corner of the drawer beside the stove.

             Convinced that I must have accidentally left the knife in the dishwasher, I inhaled a calming breath and opened the door. An empty silverware basket greeted me. I removed the bottom rack, searched the bottom of the washer, and faced the frightening truth; someone had stolen my paring knife. Why?

            Three depressing days and countless tears later, I turned the house inside out looking for the metal three-hole punch. Not only did I need to punch holes in the story I printed, I had placed sentimental value on the tool since I had purchased it with a gift card the kids gave me for my birthday. The search turned up neither the hole punch nor the paring knife. Although there was a slight chance my memory failed on the third item, I was reasonably sure I was also missing an unopened package of Emory boards from the linen closet.

            Is it possible that socks aren’t the only things that just disappear into thin air?