Your Lost Owala Misses You

I remember the day you left. As you walked away without a last glance, I was left with only the cold tile under me and the bright fluorescent lights above to keep me company. 

I used to go with you everywhere. I used to watch you smile, struggle with organic chemistry homework and doomscroll when you should have been sleeping, all the while counting my blessings: You were mine, and I was yours.

I can still recall in detail when you picked me up and rescued me from the shelf in the kitchenware section of the Target on Texas Avenue. 

“I want something blue,” you said. “But not too blue, you know?”

You grabbed me, inspected my lid, my straw; you saw my potential, my vulnerability. You took me home to your lovely five-bedroom apartment. We survived three boyfriends together (the worst being Chet, with his sweaty hands) and six failed friendships, all of which weren’t your fault. 

But alas, I sat alone. I watched other happy bottles pass me by, snug in the pockets of their owners’ backpacks. The scene was so sad that I began to perspire, until, at last, I felt the touch of a savior.

A tall, strong man wearing glasses and a button-up met my gaze. He seemed perfect. His hands weren’t too sweaty, his fingers absent of calluses; but once again, my hopes were soon dashed. 

He placed me on a shelf similar to the one you chose me from. A sign to my left read “Lost and Found.” He looked at me one last time before walking away, never to be seen again. As the dust settled and my perspiration turned into a puddle at my feet, I thought of you.

As each day passes, I wonder if you are coming. Do you still have that same pink backpack? The one with the netted water bottle pocket that let me breathe but kept me safe? Have you started talking to Chet again? Do you miss me?

Please come back. 

 

— Your blue Owala