On Missing

There are several areas in a human’s life where certain forms of missing happen. Take me today, for instance. I’ve managed to miss a turn, a glimpse at a map and a chance to get involved, all within one afternoon.

In my never-ceasing struggle to get incorporated into the Ann Arbor community as much as possible I decided to become a member of the local library – Ann Arbor District Library. Or did I want the membership because of the shelves upon shelves upon shelves of music and movies the library has to offer? Provided there’s Dvorak’s American Quartet no. 12 in F Major playing in my headphones at the moment, the latter seems the case.

But anyway. As I was walking down, that is in my case up, the street, not paying any particular attention to the surroundings, I missed my turn to the left. The walk which should take some ten minutes took me thus more than twenty.

The second missing followed shortly afterward. Upon emerging from the library, a proud holder of the library card carrying a bunch of Rostropovich’s CD’s in a bag, I simply let myself be overpowered by my infallible instinct and highly-developed sense of orientation, missing thus a glimpse at my now very worn-out map. Those who know me also know what I’m referring to. Yes, I ended up in a completely different part of the downtown. And at that point, had I missed yet another look at the map, I might have as well found myself in Ypsilanti, for all I know.

Having missed the said glimpse and losing thus my way, not such an uncommon thing with me, I’ve also missed my chance to get involved with one of four hundred plus student communities there are under U of M. Only too late did I come to the very heart of the Central Campus, the Diag, and saw that it was past four and all the communities’ representatives were unanimously packing their tables and leaving. Ok then, it will cost me a ride up to North Campus next week, but I will get involved. No more missed opportunities.

How many things does an ordinary person miss in his or her life? Do they regret them? Do they realize and admit them at all? A character in one of Chekhov’s short stories was obsessed with things missed. He even made a list of them to frustrate himself with. Yes, I was angry with all those missed turns, glimpses or chances today. But there’s no reason to cry over spilled milk. The missed things must remain just that. Missed things. They cannot turn to spoilers of one’s present.

Or even better, they should teach one something. I've learnt today to pay more attention to street signs, to the map and to social events around.

But then, there is also a different kind of missing. And this one cannot be stored for self-educational purposes. This missing is still with me no matter what. I’m missing my husband. I hope you’re fine, honey. As well as I hope that one day you're going to have a chance to read this.