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the patron saint of lost causes

illustrated by

@tea.vinci

Lisa Weber

february 2021

I'm doing laundry and another sock goes missing

and I wonder where they go and why they leave.

Are they pulled from the washer by some invisible hand, 

destined for a dryer-sheet scented heaven

beyond this stained existence?

 

And don't we all wish we could disappear sometimes—

sneak out through some magic portal and 

fly away to the hiding places of our dreams.

 

And haven't we all felt like socks without mates—

like something is missing and we can't seem to find it

no matter where or how hard we look.

 

Or maybe we're full of holes and no one has the time 

to mend us because they're too busy filling up other holes,

like the ones in their souls that they dug out themselves

and can never fail to fill because emptiness can be comforting.

 

Sometimes the lost don't want to be found.

And sometimes even they have forgotten

where they hid themselves in the first place.

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Or maybe we're like Alice in Wonderland—

never feeling the right size, trying to fit 

in this confusing world of riddles 

Maybe we're like that bride who accidentally

locked herself in a trunk while playing hide-and-seek,

and wasn't found until years later when someone

cleaning out the attic discovered her remains.

And what remains but time we can never get back

and memories that trick us at every turn.

 

Or maybe we're like Alice in Wonderland—

never feeling the right size, trying to fit 

in this confusing world of riddles 

that taunt us with Cheshire grins

and make us worry we're going to lose our heads.

 

Most of the time, we're simply humans 

doing laundry, quietly praying 

the never ending pile will disappear

and we'll find those missing socks

along with some measure of hope—

a tiny miracle hidden in all this loss.

 Lisa Lerma Weber has been called weird all her life. Her weird brain compels her to write.

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