I once discovered a box of my mugs hidden in the basement. I hadn’t put them there. But there they were anyway, stacked in the middle between denim button up shirts, books like Lady Chatterley’s Lover and mugs that read, “Write like a Motherfucker”, “I’m just a girl who likes to write” and one festooned with the faces of famous Democrats, given to me by a friend as a joke. I’d been missing them. But of course, if a dish goes missing, especially in a house with two kids where you are the one who takes care of things, you think it’s your fault. And you are so busy, how do you have time to track down a mug. Maybe it got put away in another cupboard? Maybe you misplaced it? Maybe it’s in the office? And so months go by. The mugs stay missing. And you are just a little troubled every time you go for coffee in the morning.

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