Missing Wilson

You know that scene in Cast Away when Wilson the volleyball is lost at sea and Tom Hanks is devastated to lose his one and only friend?  His true companion?  The one ‘person’ that has kept him company, listened to his stories, sat with him around campfires, and all those other things you do when you’re on a deserted island?  Yeah, that person.  Wilson was that person.  Wilson was HIS person.  All he had in the world.  And the cruel, cold ocean swept him away.
Well, girl.  Lemme just tell you what happens when a 14-year-old girl loses her Northface jacket, because it’s similar in scale and scope to the devastation faced by Mr. Hanks on that island.  There is a theme in some of my blogs that revolves around tears and snot and falling into deep, black pits of depression, but that’s mostly when I talk about things that have negatively affected the teens in my life.  (Like, for example, if we don’t have taco sauce or we forget to DVR some vampire show or even if we wake up five minutes late and don’t have time to put on an extra coat of mascara—you know, life’s devastating little moments.)
Anyway, I’m about to tell you about a tragic, tragic moment—a moment so dire that you will need to prepare yourself mentally (put on a sad face and act sufficiently stunned, because if you do not, you will risk the wrath of…the MOURNING teenager).  Two nights ago, on a cold and stormy night (not really, but it makes the story sound better), we left the gym and made the long trek across brutal windblown lands (through a few subdivisions to our warm, well-lit home), and just as we arrived, a keening wail pierced the air.
“My Northface jacket!”
It actually sounded more like, “MyyyyyyNoooooorrrrtttttthhhhhFaaaaaaaaaceeeeJaaaaaacket!!!!” and somewhere in the middle of it a high-pitched ringing began in my ears.  It was a terrible wail, and I knew then and there that the legend of the Wailing Teenager of Lee’s Summit was true.  They say she roams the streets at night looking for her lost jacket and crying and whining to anyone who will listen.  (Hint:  Don’t whine to me, because I’ve been up since 5:30 a.m., and I just finished working my second job.  Talk to someone else, Sweetie.)
Oh crap, that’s no werewolf, that’s my kid.  Say what?  Is that actually a 14-year-old CRYING over a coat?  Why yes, yes it is, now that you mention it.  We are four years away from supposed adulthood, and those are tears over a jacket.
But I digress.  Here’s what went down.  Evidently, I forced her to leave the jacket on the trampoline at the gym, AND not only that, but THEN I failed to remind her that I forced her to leave it there.  Dang it, I’m mean.
The tears went on for approximately 16 hours, more or less.  I think they stopped when she slept, but I’m not sure.  There may have been sleep-tears, but if so, I slept right through ‘em.
Here’s the kicker though.  The next day for school, she left in a size 3X plaid shirt-jacket thing that looked like it might have been handed down to her by a well-meaning homeless guy.  She looked utterly ridiculous, but she insisted that she owned nothing else, and since I refused to go back to the gym to recover her lost jacket the previous evening, she was left with no recourse but to wear whatever rags she could dig up.  (Nevermind the 20-ish coats and jackets she has lying around the house that might have looked slightly less homeless-y.)  She made her point.  And she showed me.
Wilson, we miss you!  Funeral services for Wilson will be forthcoming.
(The jacket has been recovered, but oh how I want to let her keep wearing the plaid shirt for a coat.)

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