Pen knife

I lost my pen knife.

I had lost it years ago, and then found it again while when moving while Gloria was dying, so it was a minor, and totally disproportionate, comfort after Gloria died.  I carry it everywhere, partly because grandfathers are supposed to be ready, at all times, with a pocket knife (generally for opening difficult presents at family birthday parties).  But partly, I suspect, it's because of it's totemic comfort value.

I lost it again this morning.  And then I *really* lost it. 

I lost my wife, I lost my home, I am losing a whole bunch of things because I am purging in preparation for moving again, and now I lost my pen knife.  I had a panic/meltdown/grief burst like you wouldn't believe.  Admittedly, losing a pen knife and losing a wife are not in the same league.  But losing the pen knife seemed to trigger a whole bunch of grief, and loss, and tears, because of all the other losses.  It just seemed like I was losing absolutely everything in life.  So today started out with a huge grief burst, totally out of proportion to the actual loss.  Not a great start to the day.

Grief is weird.

(Later, while I was out volunteering, I did recall where I had used it last, and where I had left it.  And, when I got back, it was still where I had left it, so I haven't lost it after all.  But, by that time I had gotten a little perspective back, anyway ...)