It was a chilly evening (actually, it was more like cold) with intermittent rain when Sister, Brother-in-law and I went out for dinner, so before they picked me up, I'd neatly stacked my small purse, rain parka, scarf and gloves on a chair, to grab as soon as they drove up. They were at the door by the time I heard them drive in and had gathered my stuff, so we splashed out to their pick-up truck.
Parking at the restaurant slopes a bit, so Sister and I tumbled out the downhill side of the truck and we all walked briskly down the parking lot, down the steps and were shown to our table. It wasn't until we were bundling up to leave that I started fumbling around for my gloves. Burgundy knit gloves. Came with a plaid burgundy scarf that I bought on an emergency basis on a fiercely stormy January day when friends and I had taken a train from Paris to Rouen to visit the Cathedral, which was completely buttoned down due to forecast of "une têmpete" of 100 kilometres per hour.
I couldn't find them on the seat of the booth, nor in my pockets, on the floor, in my tiny purse. Not in the truck, not on the pavement. They're getting a bit tattered -- I wear them a lot and they weren't high quality to start with -- but I've got the nostalgia attachment to them. I want them back but I don't want to obsess. I "lose" things a lot and I can either search frantically for them, or wait for them to come back to me when they're ready. The latter works best, as long as there's not a deadline.
When they brought me home we looked on the ground around the truck, around the living room, on the chair where I thought I stacked my things before we left. We sat around for ages afterward, looking at old scanned family photos on the computer.
When my sister called late the next morning, she said they'd gone back to the restaurant parking lot to check, so while she waited, I went out in the driveway and followed the rain water flow out into the street and down the hill. No signs. We hung up and I took a few more glances around the room and in the chairs and was about to go back to my cooking project (you read that right . . . cooking) when I thought "burgundy gloves," "burgundy chair." The natural disguise. I looked more closely -- more like wishful thinking than real expectation, given how much time we'd spent there, both the night before and me this morning -- and what was that?
|The burgundy chair|
|Burgundy on burgundy|
They'd come back to me. I was happy. Sister was happy. Scarf and gloves were reunited.
See you tomorrow.