Last summer, I lost my Mont Blanc pen. It vanished one bright day after writing outside. My youngest had brought my papers in and I thought he was perhaps careless. We tore the house upside down looking for it, checked the garden. But not a trace. And a result, in many ways, my writing has felt off. I have used that pen to help me write every historical.It was wrong of me but I missed that pen.
The discovery of my earring a few weeks ago gave me hope. Maybe some day, the house would reveal the pen.
Then yesterday, I happened to lean over and look by the sofa in my study. There in plain view was the pen! The sofa was thoroughly taken apart in August and again when I was searching for some piece of paper in September. It was not there then. It was there yesterday. Just like someone had dropped it and walked away. Given the fuss I had made (including dire threats), the children were pleased to know it had been found.
Is it a rent in the space-time continuum? Does the house simply eat objects and spew them out again in odd and obscure places? Or is there a logical explanation?