The blind groundhog

It’s happening again.  

The slow burn of annoyance flickers to life  

as I pat my pockets,  

scan the kitchen counter,  

and peer under the newspaper  

as if my glasses have somehow  

mastered the art of camouflage.

It’s the third time this week,  

but who's counting?  

(Except me, obviously.)  

I can already hear the ghost of Monday’s panic  

rattling its chains in my mind,  

and Thursday’s fiasco lingering like a bad aftertaste.

I march from room to room,  

each step more frantic than the last,  

my hands swiping across surfaces,  

yanking open drawers with the urgency  

of a man searching for a misplaced lottery ticket.

Are they in the bathroom?  

The car?  

The refrigerator?  

I’m not above checking,  

because at this point,  

it feels like anything is possible.

Memories of past searches  

flash before my eyes—  

like that time I found them in the garage,  

next to the lawnmower,  

or last summer when they turned up in the freezer  

(I still don’t want to talk about that one).

By now, I’m muttering to myself,  

something about losing my mind,  

or how this is surely  

a sign of some greater cosmic joke,  

when my daughter walks in,  

and in one glance,  

solves the mystery  

with the ease of a seasoned detective.

“Dad,” she says,  

barely suppressing a grin,  

“they’re on your head.”

Of course.  

Of course they are.

I reach up and there they are,  

perched like a tired bird  

that’s been resting there all along,  

mocking my frantic search  

with their quiet, unassuming presence.

I let out a laugh—  

part relief, part disbelief,  

part resignation to the fact  

that this will probably happen again,  

and again, and again,  

until I’m either too old to care  

or too forgetful to remember  

that I should care at all.

I slide the glasses back onto my nose,  

the world snapping into focus  

with a clarity that feels both miraculous  

and a little smug.  

My daughter just shakes her head,  

already halfway out of the room,  

knowing, as I do,  

that the next time this happens—  

because there will be a next time—  

she’ll be right there,  

ready to save me from myself  

once more.