The Case of the Missing Milk

Last week I lost the milk.  

I came home from the Workout From Hell and opened the refrigerator to pound a glass of CowJuice (the best sports recovery drink ever) and it wasn't there.

It just . . . wasn't there.

I was sure that just the day before I had more than half a gallon left.

I was sure that the kids had not drunk the whole thing because we were out of Nestle Quik.  Also, there was not an empty plastic container to be found in the house.

It truly was a mystery.  

I shrugged my shoulders, hopped in the car, and went to the store to buy a new gallon.

Thirty three dollars and eighteen cents later, I returned with milk, lemons, six cans of tomatoes, four cans of black beans, bananas, graham crackers, butter, bread, and I don't remember what else.

The missing milk was like an itch I couldn't reach that day.  I thought about it as I splashed around at the pool with my children.

I thought about it as I filled my wretched/glorious mini-van with fuel.

I thought about it as I prepared bar-b-que meatballs and mashed potatoes (better tasting than they sound) with a garden salad for supper.

I thought about it as I sat in the Varsity Theater and watched Departures and I tried not to audibly cry through the whole thing.

The next day the missing milk was more like an aunt I should call more often.  I remembered it in fleeting moments, but wasn't obsessed with it like I was the day before.

After a few more days, I had all but forgotten about the mysterious disappearing milk.

Until I found it.

It was in this cupboard in that empty space on the top shelf.

And it wasn't milk anymore.

Hurry home darling, I'm lost without you.