Your pick for governor just lost
her bid for election. You grab
some slides and a sweatshirt to
go for a walk. You swing open
the fridge to bring a bottle of
water but you’re all out. You
notice the sour cream expired,
then remember the enchiladas
you planned to make. You check
the produce, the milk, the eggs
twice. You’re not sure when
else you’ll have a moment to
go, so you’re headed out for
things made scarce by living:
a family-sized pack of toilet
paper, elderberry vitamins,
buy-one-get-one deals on
frozen spinach. Your wife
reminds you we’re running
low on floss and another
item made scarce by living.
So you’re in an aisle now
familiar to you, though you
can’t feel her pain. What
you feel for her, you know,
is affection unlike any other
thing listed. Let’s be honest.
You are unlocking the trunk,
find the bag of shampoo
and starch you forgot to
bring in days ago. It never
occurred to you; you were
too busy at the time chatting
about missed previews and
your coworker’s latest bout
with motion sickness. But
it happens, like a prodigal
sock reappearing the second
you’ve folded your last shirt
and you thought what was
lost was lost forever.

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