I forgot where I put my brain.
I search for it, beneath the pile of picture frames I have yet to hang. It's not here or behind the couch cushions or the pile of laundry that seems to breed like rabbits on holiday. I walk outside and look beneath the black bench and under the sunrise and the mustard flowers that Anthony likes to pick and smell. It's not in the trunk of my car or in my teacup collections or in the closet I'm afraid to go into.
"What I are you doing?" he asks. He's just home from work and wearing blue shirt and a black tie. I'll never get sick of seeing him dressed up like this.
"Looking," I say. I'm always looking for something.
"I can't remember."
He smiles and kisses me on the forehead. He catches my hand in his and squeezes it. In that instant, I am found.