It's Not Just the Keys, Dear

"You give me the slip between garlic and lilies, as if this is what comes of my unprotected loves..."

This is how Sarah Barber begins her poem about lost love in To a Ring I Lost Planting Bulbs. Whether it's a lost ring, a lost game, or a lost job, loss is so much more than just a thing that goes away.

I discovered a few days ago that I'd lost a set of car keys, but I couldn't just shrug this away. I had to spend hours combing through pockets and drawers, peeking under sofas and pillows, and even inspecting the puppy's crate, and then I went on to interrogating everyone but the mailman about whether they'd seen my keys. I had to retrace and then retrace again my steps on the last day I'd seen them, trying to figure out where they might have given me the slip. At day's end, there was no sign of the buggers and I was emotionally and physically drained.

Because it's not just about the keys. Clearly I can get a new set made. It's about having to admit it's my fault, which means I've lost my reliability. It's about the day-long search that produced gum wrappers and dust bunnies and pine cones tracked in by the dog, which means a lot of lost time. And it's about giving in and giving up, admitting defeat, which means a loss of dignity.

We all know those jangly little creatures didn't exactly get up from the dinner table, pack a bag, and runaway. They're not teenage kids, for crying out loud. More likely they're sitting exactly where I left them - not in a pocket of my favorite jeans or in a zipped compartment in my purse, and certainly not in the pot where my keys are supposed to be - but surely they're sitting right where I left them in some completely ridiculous and illogical and forgettable place, and some day (maybe weeks or months from now) I'll stumble upon them and feel totally stupid.

Until that day comes, though, I won't be able to rest completely. I'll continue to search my memory for a clue, and check behind furniture and inside shoes I hadn't thought to check before, and suspect everyone who comes and goes that they might have my car keys, and therefore the keys to my inner peace, in their posession.

And now that I think about it that way, I guess car keys - especially lost keys - are a lot more like teenage kids than you'd think. Especially the way you need them more than they need you, and the part about feeling stupid. The big difference, as I see it, is that I can get a new set of car keys made.