What we had, which was in scarcity anyway, has gone missing.
I thought it was in the tiny amber-colored onyx bowl from Turkey, or the square wooden box from Morocco. That’s where we keep our most precious things. But we checked and it wasn’t there. Maybe I slipped it in the back of my underwear drawer. But no. We thought it might be hiding under the piles of dirty clothes in my daughter’s room and so we kicked the clothes around the floor hoping it would emerge.
The bathroom? Crazy idea, but maybe it just got misplaced in there by a new bar of oatmeal soap, or the extra Aveeno lotion in the bottom drawer. Not there either. We tried the large straw basket in the centre of the kitchen island, the one that accumulates odds and ends like candy and vitamin bottles and notes; the bright orange dish by the Frida Kahlo doll that holds keys in the entrance hall. We looked behind the couch and along the edges of the matted, cream throw rug. Nowhere to be found.
Maybe on the rim of the pot holding the geranium? In the plastic cheese container in the fridge? Under the sink? Hiding in the rainboots in the hall closet? No. No. No.
Then I thought of the strange occurrence the other day. Our horse was tied up in the hallway of our apartment building, just outside our door. Her reins were attached to the door knob. I was going shopping and had her waiting there, brought up the eleven floors in the elevator from the courtyard below where she spends the days. She was saddled and ready.
I was leaning down to pick up my umbrella, ready to leave, when I heard a knock on the window in the livingroom. It was a pigeon, a homing pigeon, I would soon learn. The pigeon wanted to come in. I let her in and she immediately flew to the front door, and knocked on it.
I opened the door to the hallway, without asking why, and she grabbed the horse’s reins in her beak, and began leading our horse through the apartment. Then, the most amazing thing happened. She flew through the open window with our horse. I watched, confounded, as she carried the horse through the air, eleven floors down, and landed her in the courtyard below.
They began to walk away. At this point I was yelling at the pigeon and horse. The horse only turned sad eyes toward me and continued to be led. The pigeon ignored me entirely. They disappeared around the brick facade of the high-rise near us.Now, when I think about it, I bet alacrity was hiding in one of the saddlebags. It must be at someone else’s house.
Not really a Biography
I have always been inclined to move forward, roll the stone, down, and often up, hills. I've tried to write through it all. Everything on this blog is written by me.