I figured I was officially over-the-hill when I couldn’t find the bucket.
I knew the signs well enough because my father, who made it to 95, and mother-in-law who came up just short of 90, had shown me. In their later years, they’d complain that something was missing – typically something of little or no value – and the only possible explanation was that, well, someone had taken it.
“Someone snuck into your kitchen and stole your coffee mug, dad?”
“What other explanation could there be?” he’d ask and look at me defiantly.
Okay, I’d always figured he was losing it. Then I lost the bucket.
I’d washed the dog and put the bucket in the garage and then it wasn’t there.
I looked everywhere. I retraced my steps. I searched. I looked in places I hadn’t even been for three weeks. It was gone.
Did someone really creep into my garage, ignore a few dozen things that actually have value, and waltz out my an old, worthless, plastic bucket?
But what other explanation could there be?
Then my daughter arrived. “Hey, dad, I borrowed your bucket. I put it back.”
I think they heard the sigh of relief in the next time zone.
But now I can’t find the sponge.