Last January I made the trek to Winter Park, Fla., for a soccer tournament. After a few late hotel nights, cheesy tourist attractions, and blistering hot soccer games, I was finally on my homeward-bound flight with a new sunburn in possession and my luggage in tow. A nagging feeling that I was missing something finally resulted in the realization that I left my “beloved” copy of “Wuthering Heights” by the poolside. When I say my copy, I actually mean Mr. Walsh’s third-period AP Language copy, and when I say beloved, I actually mean deeply disliked. In fact, the novel’s untimely misplacement may have been a blessing in disguise (sorry, Mr.Walsh).
Nonetheless, I cannot help but wonder where that book is today. In the spirit of Mary Poppins’ song “The Place Where Lost Things Go,” I am constantly reminded that nothing is actually gone forever, instead merely out of place.