I came downstairs this morning at 6:01, slightly late. The first family of the day had already come in, and the baby met me at the door. I set my book on the table and picked her up. I verified this chain of events with her mother. Book on table. Pick up baby.
After breakfast, I couldn't find the book. After searching all the logical places (cereal boxes, refrigerator, bottom of the garbage can) I still couldn't find it. I dismantled my desk. The filing cabinet and all the shelves in the pantry. The garbage and the baskets in the bathroom. All the cupboards (several times) and drawers in the kitchen. The freezer. Under the microwave, buffet, fridge, stove and sink. I even searched my bedroom, the hall and the stairs. Everywhere I've set foot today. The laundry table. I stood on my table and surveyed the room from there. My children's rooms and backpacks. I offered them a dollar to find the book. I offered them five dollars to find the book.
It was a feeble work of fiction–hardly worthy to be called book. I already know exactly what's going to happen, and I was only on page thirty five. But now it is driving me bonkers. Because a book doesn't just disappear. It was a big book. Not a little pocket paperback novel. Big. Gone. Hmmmm.