By Olivia Kwon

Every time you misplace something you hear your mother’s voice in the back of your head.
Use your eyes, child, she says.
You must not be looking very hard; it’s probably right there, it didn’t just grow legs and abandon you.
You hear her when you lose your phone charger, or your notebook, or your favourite pair of jeans
And you hear her when you lose the intangible things
Like peace, and belonging, and contentment.
You wish she was right,
that these things were right in front of you.
You wish you could tear apart the couch cushions or dig through your centre console, crack
yourself open and find them hiding there
Waiting for you to cross them again.
Because once, not too long ago, peace was right here.
Intertwined with your fingers, running its thumb along the peaks of your knuckles, and belonging
had its hand in your hair
Assuring you of your own existence
Promising you that this isn’t all a mistake
That you are in the right place.
And contentment
Contentment was the pillow that always felt a little too human.
Aligning every exhale with your own
Allowing you to rest.

It was right here,
All of it.
And you keep retracing your steps, and checking under your bed, and racking your brain for any
memory
Any clue
But you’ve looked everywhere this time,
You promise.
Maybe the peace and belonging and contentment are actually gone.
Maybe you are now just a carcass left for vultures to feast on.
Maybe they abandoned you after all.

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Olivia Kwon is a student at The Hotchkiss School in Lakeville, CT. Her work is recognized by Scholastic Art and Writing and can be found in The RavensPerch, Crashtest Magazine, and Sterling Review. In her free time, she loves hiking, making jewelry, and spending time with her friends. Find her on Instagram @0liviakw0n.