Which planet has my sun­glasses?

Daily Local News (West Chester, PA) - - FEATURES - Donna Debs

Dear Lost and Found in the sky; This is get­ting out of hand. It wasn’t bad enough you took my Lon­don Fog trench coat or my leop­ard print scarf or those killer brown suede an­kle boots. You had to have my jeans jacket. Not the old one, not the one that’s baggy, not the one I wear to rake the leaves, but the trim and tidy dark blue one with the per­fectly snug waist and the cute sil­ver but­tons.

Did you know it cost a for­tune and had fi­nally reached that per­fectly soft stage?

How about those denim re­jects scream­ing for re­demp­tion in garages and base­ments, thrown in cor­ners and long for­got­ten? Why not take one of those? And if there’s a place you de­posit the ex­tras you snatch, please let me know where that is.

And while you’re at it, could you check for the cozy black fleece that didn’t show up when I went hunt­ing for the win­ter clothes now that the weather has changed down here and I could use a guard against the hail you throw at us be­cause you didn’t give us any fur. This is not our fault. Did you grab that fleece from the hik­ing trail when it got too warm? Who/what was it any­way that turned the weather from gloomy to glam?

I think I must be one of your big­gest donors. Did you re­mem­ber that? I guess re­mem­ber­ing is one of the prob­lems here, though it’s you guys who for­got I’d al­ready given my keys and wal­let when they slipped from my pants that day I dozed on the beach. Or did they slip? Per­haps your su­per-hu­man skill is be­com­ing so tiny you can slide in any­where, added of course to your in­vis­i­bil­ity.

Yes, we’re all jeal­ous. But you can’t fool me, I know you’ve been at it.

I knew it when you made off with that book years ago in that cof­fee bar. All I know is that mem­ory of The Da Vinci Code was erased un­til later that day. How do you do that, that ho­cus po­cus thing, and could you give us that tech­nique when we want to for­get other things we wish we didn’t re­mem­ber? It would re­ally come in handy.

And it wasn’t even that great, the book or the mocha latte. I thought you had bet­ter taste.

So I guess there’s a gi­gan­tic thrift store in the sky, is that it? Are you trad­ing with other so­lar sys­tems that need more sun­glasses? Some dry civ­i­liza­tions with not one but two suns, where a trove of Ray-Bans, the Maui Jims, the cheap knock-offs have landed. My shades could be perched on a crea­ture whose eyes are in their feet. Please tell them one of the pairs I con­trib­uted is pre­scrip­tion, and crush­ing them would be a sin on any planet.

And fi­nally, how does it feel when you see us search­ing through suit­cases and mak­ing fran­tic phone calls and comb­ing the beaches and the wilder­ness and rack­ing our brains? How does it feel to know you cause a grown woman to cry at the mere drop of a fa­vorite cash­mere sweater on a park bench, never to be seen again? Pretty pow­er­ful, huh? Or wise? Is this one of those lessons about the im­per­ma­nence of things, the silli­ness of ma­te­rial

pos­ses­sions, the op­por­tu­ni­ties we ig­nore for dis­card­ing the old and invit­ing the new? Is this your gift to us?

Dear Sticky Fingers, thank you then. En­joy the jacket. It’s my gift to you.

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