I Left My Wings on a Chair

Lost Child

21 L o s t C h I L D so there you all are, everyone you know plus about a thousand extras, trying to find the missing child, looking at the map and taking every form of transportation you’ve seen in your life. finally the alarm goes off and you shift on your pillow and the extras begin to wander off, except for the two women with accents and the man with the map. Theystay,eventhoughthemapneveractuallyleadsyoutotheproblem you are trying to explain to everyone. so you start getting ready for work and then you realize that when you went to the store yesterday without the list, you forgot lotion, which has become an emergency since the cold snap dried out the air, so you go canvassing through the house for the nearly empty specialty creams you got for Christmas and you put them on, blueberry, peach, cucumber, and you wonder if everyone at work will suddenly get the urge to go to the salad bar, and you’re throwing the empties into the garbage, which is full because you forgot to take out the trash again. so you start driving down the highway and it’s a mess from yesterday’s deep snow and a truck kicks some slush onto the windshield and you turn the knob for washer fluid and that’s when you discover you’re out—you get this little spit and it smears around and you can’t really see anymore, you need new wipers anyway but you’re a little worried you won’t be able to get them back on and then you’d have to put your arm out the window, a human arm wiper. The women at work are telling childbirth stories and you make a little comment about Lamaze, and they don’t know you very well and you get the feeling they think you’re not very bright. so the day goes on like that until you get back into bed and get ready for the man to give you the map that isn’t very helpful so you can go and look for the lost child, and the last thing you think before you fall asleep is that it’s funny that even in your dreams, you don’t stop to ask for directions. ...