Just out of my reach

Yesterday, I dropped the screw cap off my hand-cream.

I was in the car and I looked back to see reflections of amber robots through the rain drops and I squeezed my hand down the side of the chair, I could just make out with my finger tips that it had fallen right between the chair mechanism and I couldn’t get a firm enough grip to pull it back up.

There just wasn’t enough space.

And then, last night, I dropped my hair tie. The simple plain black band that’s not too tight but not too loose and fits my hair just right.

I was lying in bed and stretched over to place it on the bedside table. It was dark and I thought I had a grasp on it, but I missed the table and, as I desperately tried to catch it, it fell next to my bed, I thought, somewhere amongst the bottle of water, the socks, the boots, the jacket I had had on earlier. I reached down to find it but it must have fallen further down under the bed.

I couldn’t even make it out with my fingertips.

It had fallen too far.

These were ordinary occurrences. These were not disasters that would determine my fate. These were experiences that I would soon all too easily forget and I would invariably throw the hand-cream away and I would eventually find another hair tie that would fit just right.

I would move on. And I would forget. For the most part.

But. It made me think.

It made me think about how the things I drop, and sometimes even the things I hold on to, seem to fall just out of my reach.

They always have.

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