Lost and Found

Lost and Found – A Thrashing of Thorns

Something infinitely precious. Personal and irreplaceable.

His and his alone. Always and ever. Not to be traded. To be kept. A non-negotiable.

He had it safe in a drawer. Only he had a key. And even then, even he rarely looked inside. It was enough to know that it was there. Untouched. Untouchable.

Until the day he found the drawer unlocked. But not by his key. No signs of a forced entry. And the precious thing gone.

Immediately, he set off. There was only one place to go.

Without his coat, his hair uncombed, his face unshaven, his teeth unbrushed he faced down the young man and demanded it be returned.

“It must be here,” he said, in what he hoped was a voice both of assurance and authority. “You yourself intimated as much. In time, all things lost find themselves returned to the ‘Lost and Found’. And this is lost. And here I am to reclaim what is mine.”

The young man smiled. “Many things here have been found. Would Sir care for this trumpet? I believe it once belonged to an eminent jazz musician.”

“I want only what is mine. I have no need of that which belonged to someone else. What would I do with a trumpet?”

“Sir could try blowing it. I assure you it is in perfect working order. Everything found is thoroughly checked, cleaned and overhauled.”

“I do not want a trumpet. I have come for what is lost. Give me what I have lost.”

“Or these golf clubs,” continued the young man, as if the other man had not spoken, “once the prized possession of a three-time champion. Or,” as the other man opened his mouth to speak, “we have love letters penned during the Great War; a lock of Picasso’s hair;

Queen Anne’s false teeth; the claw of a Triceratops; some seeds from the original forbidden fruit.”

As he spoke, the young man’s face became increasingly fevered, fine beads of sweat bunching at the corner of his lips.

“…the cherry red lips of Helen of Troy; Little Boy Blue’s hunting horn; the Duke of Wellington’s boots; crusts from the Earl of Sandwich’s packed lunch; a sprig of rosemary from the corpse of Ophelia; Ali Baba’s bottled genie; King Harold’s eye with arrow attached; a rose by any other name…”

“Enough!” said the man. “Can you not furnish me with what I have lost? I care nothing for these relics. Lives lost in time. I only need what I have lost. You said it could be found here.”

“In time, Sir, it will. All things pass through here in time.

If Sir would only be patient. I am sure that Sir will be satisfied in time. Or, if not in time, later. Only be patient. All things come to he who waits.”

“But I must have it now. I cannot live without it.”

“Are you sure, Sir? Are you certain? If you will not wait…”

“Now, I tell you. I want it now. I need it now. I must have it now.”

“Then have it you will, Sir. And I hope you will be very happy together.”

The young man disappeared. And so did the shop. The man found himself alone. All was white. All would be all right. He stepped forward and fell. The fall was long but seemed, in passing, to take no time at all. Soon, he would have it back. And then that soon would be now. And they would never be parted again.