— Tales from the Universe
There is a department in the universe responsible for lost things.
I know this because I have lost an unreasonable number of things.
Keys.
Socks.
Pens.
Receipts.
Important pieces of paper.
Things I was holding approximately thirty seconds ago.
At least once, I have lost something while actively looking at it.
This cannot be entirely my fault.
There must be a department.
I imagine it as a very large warehouse.
Endless shelves.
Millions of drawers.
Bins stretching farther than the eye can see.
And somewhere behind a very tired desk sits a cosmic clerk with a clipboard.
You walk in.
“Excuse me. I’m looking for my keys.”
The clerk sighs.
“Description?”
“Small. Metal. Two keys. Black fob.”
The clerk types.
“Last known location?”
“Kitchen counter.”
The clerk pauses.
Looks at you.
Looks at the clipboard.
Looks back at you.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because our records indicate you put them in the refrigerator.”
“I did not put my keys in the refrigerator.”
The clerk rotates the monitor.
There they are.
“Oh.”
The Department of Lost Things is not responsible for why we lose things.
That is apparently another department.
The Lost Things Department only receives them.
Sometimes we put them there ourselves.
Sometimes objects simply fall through the cracks of reality.
Sometimes they hide.
Some are extraordinarily good at hiding.
Socks are particularly notorious.
Nobody has ever satisfactorily explained the sock situation.
The Department has.
They refuse to comment.
There is a special room for things lost during childhood.
A red marble.
A favorite toy.
A little plastic dinosaur.
A stuffed animal with one eye.
A photograph.
A note somebody wrote you.
A stone you thought was magical.
A tiny object you carried everywhere and then one day couldn’t find.
They’re all there.
Not because they are valuable.
Because they were.
That’s apparently enough.
The universe seems to understand something we occasionally forget:
The value of a thing is not necessarily what it is worth.
Sometimes it’s what it meant.
There are also shelves for things people don’t realize they’ve lost.
A little courage.
A sense of wonder.
A habit of drawing.
The ability to sit quietly.
The feeling that tomorrow might be interesting.
A particular laugh.
A song you used to sing.
A part of yourself you put away because life got difficult.
Those things are stored separately.
Nobody knows exactly where.
But sometimes people find them.
And when they do, it feels less like discovering something new and more like:
Oh.
There you are.
The Department has a policy about this.
They don’t return things until you’re ready.
This is controversial.
People have filed complaints.
“I have been looking for my happiness for fourteen years.”
“Yes,” says the clerk. “You weren’t ready.”
“I’m ready now.”
The clerk checks the file.
“Are you?”
Long silence.
“No.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Next case.
Sometimes, however, things come back unexpectedly.
You find an old photograph while cleaning.
You hear a song.
You smell something that reminds you of childhood.
You walk into a place you haven’t visited in years.
Suddenly something you thought was gone is standing right beside you.
Not physically.
But close enough.
Memory is strange like that.
Perhaps the Department doesn’t actually return the thing.
Perhaps it returns the doorway.
You walk through.
For a moment, you’re there again.
Same room.
Same people.
Same light.
Then the door closes.
You keep going.
There are things in the warehouse that cannot be returned.
People, for example.
The Department is very strict about this.
You can retrieve a photograph.
A letter.
A memory.
A recipe.
A voice recording.
A sweater that still smells faintly like someone you loved.
But not the person.
Those requests are forwarded elsewhere.
I don’t know where.
I suspect there is no department for that.
Some losses are simply part of being alive.
The universe is very strange.
But it isn’t cruel enough to pretend otherwise.
I think there is another section, though.
The things we lost and don’t yet know we need.
A stranger we haven’t met.
A place we’ve never seen.
A friendship that hasn’t happened.
A book we haven’t read.
A sentence someone will say ten years from now.
A version of ourselves that hasn’t been born yet.
Those aren’t really lost.
They’re just waiting.
Perhaps the universe has shelves for those too.
NOT YET.
Maybe that’s why life can surprise us.
We spend so much time searching for what we think we’re missing.
We know exactly what we want.
Or we think we do.
Then something completely unexpected walks into our life.
A person.
An idea.
A place.
A ridiculous little hobby.
A dog.
A book.
A conversation.
And suddenly we realize:
I didn’t know I was looking for this.
The clerk smiles.
Another item has been successfully delivered.
There is one last room in the Department.
It’s very small.
Almost empty.
There are no shelves.
No drawers.
No bins.
Just a chair.
And on the wall, a sign:
THINGS YOU THOUGHT YOU LOST BUT NEVER ACTUALLY DID.
Nobody likes this room.
Because this is where they keep the things that were inside you the entire time.
Your curiosity.
Your capacity for joy.
Your ability to love.
Your imagination.
Your courage.
Your ridiculousness.
Your tenderness.
The part of you that still wants to play.
You weren’t waiting for the universe to give those back.
You were waiting to notice they were still there.
So if you’ve lost something lately, don’t panic.
Check the obvious places first.
Under the couch.
In your pockets.
The kitchen counter.
The refrigerator.
Yes, the refrigerator.
You know what you did.
But if you can’t find it there, perhaps give it time.
Some things return when you’re ready for them.
Some things don’t return at all.
Some things were never gone.
And some things are still making their way toward you.
The universe is very large.
It has an enormous warehouse.
And somewhere in it, a cosmic clerk is holding your missing sock.
They’ve been holding it for years.
They are getting tired of holding it.
Eventually, they are going to throw it.
And when it lands on your bedroom floor at three in the morning, you’ll wake up, stare at it, and think:
“Where the hell did you come from?”
The universe will not answer.
The clerk will simply stamp the file:
RETURNED.
And go home.
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