A Missing Thing
by Charles C. Cole
This is a sad story about a curiously missing thing. I was brought in to assist. I’m a natural for finding lost bits.
My dad and mom stand on my porch, lost. Dad’s got both hands in his armpits, but soon tightly, stiffly around his back. Mom spots a stray cat sitting in my yard, taking a bath. Our impuissant lady cannot rally a basic salutation.
“A gang who couldn’t shoot straight,” I start. “What tragic situation brings you to my door?”
Mom sighs. Dad coughs.
“Bad as all that?” I say.
“Your traditional folks just want a typical normal day,” says Dad, glancing at Mom. “Crazy, right?”
“This morning things got... gaumy,” says Mom.
“A tiny bit of information is all I ask.”
“It’s a malison, son,” says Dad, “a blight on humanity. I know you’ll glom the solution, if any unassuming mortal can. Our world is transforming.”
“You had a fight?”
“Mankind is at risk,” insists Dad. “Tomorrow may not... work out for us.”
“How about you guys quit circumnavigating our topic and just spit it out?”
“Can’t,” says Mom.
“Words hard,” adds Dad.
“Your dad and I thought you might know a solution,” says Mom.
“To hard words?”
“You know words,” says Mom without saying much at all, “difficult and idiot-proof. Can you think of many?”
“Why?” I ask, slightly suspicious.
“Try,” says Mom, dimly hinting.
“Out loud or in my noggin?” I ask. “Okay. Got it. I’ll play, for you. How about I start with listing nouns?”
“Your pick,” says Dad. “Look about. Start a catalog of all things physical and obvious: your road, your car, your mailbox and such.”
“But not that or that or that?” I ask.
Mom grins. “Your dad’s just trying to start you off, hon.” Dad’s our long-standing family chairman, for all occasions.
I start: “Boy, girl, truck, dog, window, hubcap, siding, hydrant, man, woman, grass.” I clank on and on. “Gosh, this is jolly fun! I’m intoxicatingly giddy now. Stop your offspring from showing off. Your turn. If you want to jump in, I’ll allow it.”
“Son,” says Dad, grim as a child’s burial, “what’s wrong with your list?”
“I don’t know. It’s too short?”
“Hon,” says Mom, “don’t stop.”
I nod. “Sky, cloud, roof, marigolds, shirt, pants, buttons.”
“Don’t stop.”
“Sunlight, hands, tails, paws. That’s it. That’s all.”
Mom’s trying not to cry. Dad grabs Mom’s wrist.
“Spit it out, you two. What’s so tragic to bring you to my door at this hour of day?”
“Your hard-working, pious folks,” says Dad, “can’t unload words that contain a common unit. Nor can you. It’s run off, taking a long vacation, now in constant hiding.”
For an instant, I stand in bright light and cannot fathom what our storm is all about. Until I can. It’s missing. On this odd day, our world is critically blind to a most common part of so many words. How? Mom and Dad pick out our anomaly as if it was a burnt crisp. Can you? What awful doom must tomorrow bring? I want things back to normal, but who or what robs us of it? Is it an option?
You who can clarify all conundrums, what crucial, almost vital scrap is missing from my story?
Copyright © 2024 by Charles C. Cole
