On the mornings like today when I’m too under slept to write, I slip on my boots, throw a coat over my pajamas, and wander down the Minuteman Bike Path behind my house. With only the light of the moon to guide me, I look for things, lost or dropped, twinkly or bright.
I’m not above picking up shreds of candy wrappers, broken ear buds, or an empty nip bottle—one cinnamon-scented wiff takes me back to high school like Proust and his madeleines—and pennies that wink at me through the darkness. Even jagged shards of glass, like pieces of fallen stars, go right into the pocket of my worn wool coat.
Above are some of my recent finds, all plucked from the ground and added to the box in the back of my closet, my trove of found things found that has been growing for decades. When we pay close attention, clues appear in the oddly clarifying midnight of our lives.
This morning as I walked and searched, the inky black bike path opened into the muted light of Spy Pond, a popular spot in our town for recreation and reflection. A steady drift of pond visitors plus two million people traveling this path annually means plenty of dropped items: bottle caps, beads, game pieces, belt buckles, baby shoes, doll heads. I have discovered some of my best clues along this stretch, often in these early morning hours.
And here is what I found on the bike path this morning: a tarnished three-ring gold earring, true treasure. I often find bits of broken jewelry, but a whole gold earring has it’s own little magic that will go into my pocket and stay there in the daylight, like a promise.