Where do those lost socks go? The ones that vanish between washer and dryer, submerge in suds and never surface again? Off they go, with your husband’s favorite tie, tossed over the back of a bedside chair, nowhere to be found the next morning. Lost, with your best friend from high school, who never appears on reunion lists or in any Google search. Your grandmother’s anniversary bracelet — the one she promised you — did your cousin swipe it after all, though she still swears she didn’t? Trust, certainty, childhood loyalties — where have they gone? Your sense of optimism disappeared sometime in the nineties — you could almost pinpoint the election — but to where? And why can’t you unearth it, along with your lapsed faith, that denim jacket you loved on weekend walks, your teenage metabolism, French verbs, the old cigar box in which you placed so carefully three conch shells, a handful of dried beech leaves, your treasured sky-blue marble.