I am inordinately fond of Japanese gardening tools, and when we first started the garden here I bought a pair of high-quality bonsai scissors because I felt that just by having them, the garden would be better off. Having grown up in southern California in the 1950s, anything having to do with Japanese gardening still signifies happiness to me, so there was that, too.
One day they disappeared, and my wife insisted that I had lost them, but I insisted she’d put them in some weird place because it seemed to me that that’s what women do. They move things out of their proper place into some new place so people like me, who need to know where everything is all the time no matter what, have to spend hours looking for them only to be told “they’re right there” when in fact they never were. They were somewhere else.
That was around the time we had a compost pile, and naturally she said that’s where they were now, though she hadn’t put them there, I had lost them there. (A subtle but important difference.)
The compost pile is gone now, but quite a bit of the compost is still there, and I was spreading some on the new blue grama seed just now, when the shovel brought up what first looked like a metal pretzel, but I knew it wasn’t that. It was the scissors, after all these years. I instinctively turned to tell her, but she wasn’t there. No reply of “I told you so.” Nothing but silence, and these rusted scissors.