So, last week Thursday evening, I was putting my knitting to bed, in its little brown paper bag. And I picked up my little zippy bag doo-hicky, which faithfully follows my current project, every where we go.

What's a little zippy bag do-hicky? Well, my little zippy bag do-hicky is about 5x4 inches, red mesh, and came from the inside of a funky little day planner I received in a free Clinique gift set, a few years back.

I guess my little zippy bag do-hicky was supposed to serve as a storage pouch for keeping tiny day planner-related what-nots, but also happened to be the perfect size for holding one small pair of scissors, stitch markers, a crochet hook, a measuring tape and a clicky row counter.

And I loved it.

And now it's gone. And I know not where.

Thursday night, I put it in the bag. Saturday evening, it was gone. I have since emptied The Cakers toy boxes, drawers and even her bed linens. I've pulled couch cushions and emptied kitchen drawers. I even looked down the basement. And in my undies drawer. No. Where.

This is the kind of thing that, well, just grinds me. I know these items can be replaced, sort of. Although I'm sure I won't find another perfectly sized red mesh pouch. But the pisser for me, is that I don't think I should have to replace these items. Because they were rightfully mine and perfectly fine, right where they were. Where they belonged. With my knitting. In the brown paper bag.

So, yesterday, I get a call from my ex-husband, who tells me that the son of a couple we used to know, just died of bacterial meningitis. Of course I was stunned. And saddened.

He was the youngest of five boys. Only 16. We were not particularly close with his parents, although my ex and the boy's father were once best friends. In fact, I didn't even know they had a fifth child. And I haven't seen either parent in years. But still, it just breaks my heart.

And it scares my heart, to the core. Because, Tuesday night, this strapping high school athlete went to bed complaining of a headache and fever, and never woke up. He died within 24 hours of the first complaint of symptoms.

When my children were babies, I was always frightened of the fever and listlessness of the common virus. Babies seem so vulnerable. And they can't tell us how they feel, or what hurts, or how badly. And when they get sick, a mother just worries. No matter what the doctor says.

But a 16 year-old going to bed early, with a fever and headache? I guess I wouldn't think much about it, unless it lingered. I just can't wrap my brain around an illness coming on so quick, and so lethal. Stealing babies, while they sleep.

So, today The Cakers went to daycare, so I could run some errands. One of the items on my agenda was to replace my little lost zippy bag do-hicky and the contents. Between Joanne Fabrics and Office-Max and Hancock Fabrics, I pretty much got what I needed. But it will never be the same.

I initially felt crabby that I had to spend a free afternoon, replacing items that shouldn't be gone. But then I remembered that on this very day, some very good people were burying a child.

Then I sent up a prayer for healing.
And another, of thanksgiving.
For so many blessings.
For the lost and the found.