An essay I wrote a week ago.

Misplacements, displacements, where-did-I-put-you
I can’t recall

Gone, lost, not-found-as-yet:

favourite CD (the fourth time I’ve replaced it)
the only purple blouse I’ve ever owned (cotton, with white embroidered flowers)
clear nail polish (from my French manicure set)
1-cup measuring cup (although recipes are still turning out well)
a fresh pillowcase (mine is coated in mascara and saliva)
photographs destroyed in a downpour (two summers ago)
When Alice Lay Down with Peter (unreturned favourite book)
the language of my childhood (enough sticks to make it sting harder)
a brother, three grandparents, my father-in-law (stillborn niece and nephew)
my piano-playing ability

You think I exaggerate, I know. 6 years of lessons,
and they may as well never have happened.
Although I sing better now than I ever did in choir practice.

My landlord gave me an iPod that he found in a vacated apartment. I’ve been listening to it constantly since I miscarried two babies one month ago today. Lots of U2 – the more obscure and underrated, the better. Miss Sarajevo, Numb, Stay (Faraway So Close), more. Norah Jones: “Love in a time of war isn’t fair / He was my man but they didn’t care.” Blue Rodeo, but not the commercial stuff lately. Kenny Chesney for easy tears.

After I received the phone call that my beta number was too low, and I was already bleeding, I met my husband on the street – pouring rain, of course – to pick up books I’d had sent by courier. He asked what we could do, what could I take, surely there had to be medicine. Well, I said, there’s no glue to make embryos stick if they can’t stay. We got to the library, and of course my books weren’t there – they were lost somewhere en route. A day of miscarriages, I think to myself, what a pathetic metaphor. Must I insert Derrida into my story of loss? Really?

What can I say without sounding whiny? No one wants to read about personal tragedies if there is too much whining. Everyone wants hope – we look for it just as we can’t help but construct meaning from all kinds of text, whether or not it’s there. Book reviewers scavenge new texts for hope, all the more better when it’s a Holocaust novel, Rwandan massacre novel, etc. No one wants to hear otherwise. People want to believe that things will get better, that they’re in control of their lives. After you read this essay, if you’re at all interesting in what I’ve written, you’ll skim it again, looking for reassurance that things will end well. And if not, you’ll probably want to say to me Just adopt before you walk off without a care.

I read many books of tragedy, and think I should feel better. I had breakfast today: homemade bread, peanut butter, banana, milk (a childhood combination to which I always return). My cyclical disappointments should disappear in contrast. Should, should, should, don’t. My coffee cup says: “When I was young I was misled by flashcards into believing that xylophones and zebras were much more common.”