Lost and Found
Difficult as it is to accept, it simply is lost. There was the small, red notebook that had some writing from that time and the bright blue, spiral notebook that survived. They survived multiple moves as well as my lost memory of their existence. I was looking for the one that I used to record daily, as it took place, the last year of my first marriage. That was the one I wanted to find. Not just wanted to find; I needed to find it.
I remember what it looks like; I just don’t know where it is. From the cover, turned a faded pink long ago, the face of a Precious Moments character stares out in wide eyed innocence at whomever opens the cover. The small lock on the cover, which broke years ago, no longer provides security. Anyone who finds it can open the cover and begin to read. I think I broke the lock when I no longer had the key. But by then it didn’t matter.
‘Can’t even remember. When did I last see it? Did I toss it out? Did I leave it behind in one of the many places I had lived?’
I could not give up yet. There were more places to search. I approached the small closet in my office. I set several boxes that were stacked in there on the floor in order to reach the most promising looking box. The box was stacked with things that seemed random; a box with lightbulbs tilted next to stacks of letters, photos and a couple of paperbacks.
A note, lying next to the light bulbs, surfaced. I opened it and began to read. Apparently sent to me right before my wedding, a woman named Ann, writes to say how much excitement there must be right now at Sanbrook as the wedding preparations are taking place. The note continues in a rather formal tone, to explain how much Ann wanted to attend but unfortunately was not able to be there. In closing she sends her best regards as well as most sincere wishes for a very happy marriage.
Fifty years ago next August, my marriage took place on a farm named Sanbrook. Ann’s note indicated that she had knowledge about Sanbrook with the description of the excitement that must be going on there.
I have two cousins named Ann. The one that would have known about Sanbrook, who was the daughter of my father’s brother, would never have been the author of this note. The other Ann knew nothing of Sanbrook. I know no other Anns. The memory of who wrote me this letter is lost.
I stopped my search and called my brother. I read him the note. He agreed that neither of our cousins would have been the one to write this note. And just like me he could not think who Ann would be. Saying that we would talk later, I hung up.
I have lost Ann. I have lost the diary. Why did I keep Ann’s note when I have lost all memory of who she was? Where is the lost diary that records the last year of my marriage; the marriage that Ann believed exciting? I have lost my marriage.
Before I continue to look through the box, I sit at my desk and write this poem:
Searching in boxes for the lost diary
What we keep
And what we don’t
What we remember
And what we won’t
What we forget
Of what we kept
What we remember
Of why we wept.
Lost and found. What we keep and what we don’t. I found the diary. For a couple of months before I started to search for the diary, I had been writing a memoir. I wanted the diary because I wanted more details. I wanted to remember more about the daily reality of those days. I needed to read it and to determine what I may keep by including some of this in the memoir. I needed to find my voice from that time when I felt that I had no voice. From the time my marriage ended.
The divorce happened so long ago, and my brother says that I have not made peace with my divorce. I am not sure that he is right in his analysis. I just read something about relationships: I came to you in peace, and you blew me away in pieces.
I have almost completed the memoir.