These two options circulate through my mind like a ticking metronome. Well, I think, if its lost then it must be somewhere familiar. As a child, I used to think that, when things were lost, they were actually transported to someplace else. This belief sounds an awful lot like the book The Borrowers, but I truly believed it. So what little creatures borrowed my passport? More importantly, why should they borrow my passport?
The other option--that it was stolen--gives me some odd comfort. Perhaps it was out of my control that someone took it. I was, in other words, the innocent bystander, a victim of a knifing thief who is probably selling my passport on the black market as I type this passage up.
The moment I realized that I lost my passport was earlier today. My father, stepmother, and I were driving to Logan airport and my father (or was it my stepmother?) casually asked me if I had my passport.
Oh shit, I thought. Do you ever have those moments when you just know that something is missing, as if you can feel the absence of those few kilograms in your bag? That was my feeling.
When we walked inside the airport, I opened up my bag and searched. After security, I told my stepmother that I didn't think I had my passport. Every item of clothing was ripped out of my suitcase as I dreaded breaking the news to my father (he was a few safe feet away at the airport Au Bon Pan).I finally told him (my stepmother insists that I never lie), and he was surprisingly cool about the whole thing. We're still searching--well, my mother searched in my room after I woke her up at 5:16, and my second cousin Susan also searched through all of my boxes stowed away at my grandmother's house--and nothing has turned up.
Perhaps my passport is halfway to Bombay, in the clutches of some raja, about to be sold on the mysterious black market that lines the old silk road.
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