Last January I made the trek to Winter Park, Fla., for a soccer tournament. After a few late hotel nights, cheesy tourist attractions, and blistering hot soccer games, I was finally on my homeward-bound flight with a new sunburn in possession and my luggage in tow. A nagging feeling that I was missing something finally resulted in the realization that I left my “beloved” copy of “Wuthering Heights” by the poolside. When I say my copy, I actually mean Mr. Walsh’s third-period AP Language copy, and when I say beloved, I actually mean deeply disliked. In fact, the novel’s untimely misplacement may have been a blessing in disguise (sorry, Mr.Walsh).
Nonetheless, I cannot help but wonder where that book is today. In the spirit of Mary Poppins’ song “The Place Where Lost Things Go,” I am constantly reminded that nothing is actually gone forever, instead merely out of place.
Where is that copy of “Wuthering Heights” right now? Somewhere out there, does another Florida high schooler cherish that same exact book that has my name scribbled on the inside cover? I would love to believe that the book is living out a second, third, and fourth life where it can experience different late-night essay writing, sticky notes or annotations in the margins, and perhaps even be lost and then found again. [...]
And, somewhere out there, I would like to believe that my copy of “Wuthering Heights” is living its best life out in the sunshine by the pool in Winter Park, Fla. (Libby Connolly)
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