My gray Westmont zip-up hoodie in Auckland, my bright orange ear plugs scattered one by one in a range of hostels from north to south, my cold blue ice pack in Wanaka, and now, my trusty black wallet wandering somewhere between Oamaru and Lake Tekapo. Not to mention the most recent loss of my cooking oil in Tailor-Made Tekapo Backpackers. Ah mental lapses and rushing against time toward arriving buses. How you slowly strip me of my possessions.
Ode to my Westmont Jacket
Oh grey zipup hoodie I bought freshman year on sale for $15 from the Westmont Bookstore. How faithful you have been to me. How many majors you've witnessed me declare I should have could have done. How many sleepless hours tearing my hair (and probably your fibers) out over physics problem sets and procrastinated art projects.
Oh the people you've met, the smoky fires you've breathed. The Spring Sings and Midnight Madnesses you've attended. The Italian air (and probably food) you've tasted. The warmth you held in while gallivanting through a wintery Europe. The cold New Zealand rain you soaked up fully in the unexpected downpour on our very first day in the Southern Hemisphere.
You fit me and not many others, oh XS Westmont jacket. You subtly declared your ties to Westmont with a small understated fading logo. No brash WESTMONT branding for you. Or me, thank you very much.
Your sleeves were wearing thin at the palms where my fidgety fingers found warmth. You were ratty and reaching the end of your life. But when my dear Gracie found you in the Emerson lounge after I thought I had lost you, well, let's just say I never thought I could feel so much joy over a single article of clothing.
And now, you roam, somewhere in New Zealand.
Ode to my Bright Orange Earplugs
A quarter for a pair.
But only at Westmont's bookstore.
You are a light sleeper's savior.
But even you can do nothing against rumbling snores in hostel dorms and the shrill protest of alarms ignored by their blissfully deep-in-sleep owners.
You wiggle out of my ears,
wander down the bed
and cling to my back as I sleep.
Your stickiness is your demise.
In the morning, I rise,
Oblivious to your presence.
And visit the loo
Where, inevitably, you release your hold the moment you are able to make the perilous dive into the white porcelain pool.
I don't love you enough to rescue you from that fate.
Ode to my Cold Blue Ice Pack
I almost bought a bag of frozen peas instead of you.
But Kiwi kindness saved the peas from a melting fate as the store clerk dug through stacks of ice cream bars and boxes to find you.
You willingly sat on my ankle,
Melted.
Froze.
Graciously bore the scrawl of "Fern and her wayward ankle" in order to live safely with the food of strangers in hostel freezers.
Melted.
Froze.
Then sat in my food bag chilling my little bottle of wine and hunk of cheese.
Melted.
Froze.
Then sat in the freezer of WanakaBakpaka as Fern and her semi wayward ankle traipsed off to Queenstown, leaving you behind.
Freeze.
Ode to my Black Wallet
No poetic words to describe your loss. Just sporadic realizations of what was lost.
- Silly sticker pictures from high school years taken in the old Horton Plaza picture booths with me and my mom, me and friends, poking our heads up out of jeans pockets.
- Colorful cash. For once I thank my mental lapse for forgetting to transfer the bulk of my cash from my money belt into my wallet.
- The silly plastic cards Americans are addicted to that hold the key to (dwindling) stores of money.
- My replacement license because I lost my first copy. Second copy now gone. Third copy comes when I get home. Oh DMV, why must we meet again?!
- The pressed penny from the Wellington Te Papa museum that made me grin every time I looked at it because it had a Kiwi bird on it. (Owen from Guernsey in the Funky Green Voyager had a giggle-fit-inducing manner of saying "Kiiiwiiiii")
- All the dang abbreviations cards that got me freaking awesome discounts here. ISIC. BBH. Oh, WTF.
Ode to my bottle of cooking oil.
I now have an excuse to not cook fresh vegetables. The end.
2 comments:
Hmmm... I understand. Shame about your sweater, your wallet and all other belongings that you've misplaced. Many an objects have long been lost, misplaced or forgotten due to being rushed or fickle minds. Also, feel sorry for all the time going to be spent at the dmv. But don't worry, its all going to be fine. Most of the stuff can be replaced, even if they do not hold the same sentimental value.
I pay homage to the lost things. But I do not worry about them. Much.
I still quite miss my Westmont jacket though. It takes a while for me to find things and clothes that work for me so once I find them, I stick to them until they complete die. I'll show you my bag/purse (it's about 8 or 9 years old and falling apart) and you'll see what I mean!
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