Nearly three months after flying back home to Guam, I realize that I lost a piece of luggage from the trip. I can’t remember the point of loss. I do remember counting all our bags at the collection area in the airport, so I could’ve forgotten it outside while waiting for a cab or I probably just forgot it inside the cab after he dropped me home, in which case, if the cab driver knew it was in there, he’s a pretty terrible person for not returning it.
I am so sad. But what gets to me is the length of time it took for me to become aware of its absence, which evidently shows how much I cared for what was inside. Packing up my dorm in a matter of days was such a hassle–I basically played tetris with all my belongings and suitcases. I don’t know what’s in that missing bag, which is what irks me. But what bothers me even more is that I need to know where it is. That’s what causes me to feel anxiety: not knowing. At this point, I am okay with loss. I, however, just need to know what happened.