The Things We Lose
HAVANA TIMES – Today I went out to walk my dogs and, for the second time in a few months, I came back without my sunglasses. What a strange feeling loss leaves behind, even when the objects are, in some way, replaceable.
Since I was a child, I remember that whenever I lost something—a hair clip, a new pencil, a toy—it would bring on the bitterness of guilt and scolding.
As I grew up, I discovered that avoiding scolding is no better than the reproach one gives oneself or the impotence of not being able to go back in time to undo the moment of carelessness.
If what I’ve lost is something I value, I spend hours furious with myself, even feeling disoriented, obsessively fixated on the idea that I could get it back. I retrace my steps several times, sharpening my vision as much as I can and begging the universe that no one has taken it.
In a country like Cuba, where the only thing abundant is scarcity, we don’t have a culture of respecting lost items in case their owners might come back to find them.
At least not since I can remember. I don’t know how things were before 1959.
With sunglasses, I carry a precise curse: the more I like them, the faster I lose them. Both the previous pair and the ones I lost today (which weren’t even mine but my husband’s) were gifts from friends living abroad, because here a pair of sunglasses is absurdly expensive.
A friend of mine in Miami tells me that she also frequently loses things and considers it karma or a tithe (an indirect way of paying a debt). Looking at it that way—and considering everything I misplace—I must be in debt from past lives…
Wallets with ID or passport inside, earrings, chains, pendants, keys, pens, sweaters tied around my waist that I forget when I go into public restrooms.
Umbrellas and sunglasses are the most recurrent accessories. I remember one umbrella I loved because it was transparent, and I could watch the raindrops fall on me. I never found out where I left it.
When you have to carry several things while doingf various errands, it’s rare not to forget something along the way. Any place will do to lose something: a park bench where you sat for a moment, a bus, a taxi, the market, the beach, the Malecón seawall… the movie theater! I’ve lost many things at the movies because we’d leave in the dark while the credits rolled, and I was still overwhelmed by the emotions of the film.
One of the scariest moments was when I realized I had left two of Yasser’s paintings, rolled up, at a bakery! I nearly died of anxiety because we had to wait until the next day to ask the employees. I prayed to God with all my heart, and the next morning we went back and—luckily!—the manager had saved them and was extremely kind.
I’m also someone who often finds objects in the street, though they’re more symbolic in value than anything else.
The most common ones are little Barbie shoes or hair accessories for girls. I collect them in a small special box and like to think they are messages, or signs… just like feathers from birds I find randomly.
I know that letting go of something is one of the most liberating and wonderful sensations a person can experience.
It’s not that I don’t value the act of giving.
It’s that part of the ego that resists losing control.
When an invisible force snatches something from you without letting you choose what to give, when, or (much less to whom), it’s maddening.
I’m grateful that I haven’t yet lost something as expensive, personal, and intimate as my cellphone.
The process of letting go takes time, and once I accept the loss, I feel a sweet sense of freedom. But sometimes the mental struggle against the stranger who took the item is long. I give up out of exhaustion, not out of kindness.
Another bitter moment was the day I came back from being out and found that a USB drive in my pocket was missing—the one that held the final version of a children’s story. I had been so happy with the result, one of those creative processes where you feel touched by grace. I was satisfied, radiant. And when I faced the fact that I’d have to let go of that version, I don’t remember how many times I retraced my steps, searching every corner of grass, sidewalk, or pavement… until night fell and I gave up.
The next day I had to write the story again, and the process threw me into stormy states of consciousness, where every vision came almost painfully. When I finally finished the new version, I felt the indescribable fullness of having achieved what I wanted.
Days later, unexpectedly, I found the USB drive in my closet. It had simply fallen from my pants pocket into a pair of shoes.
It really struck me, because I realized some invisible force had compelled me to rewrite the story. I immediately wanted to read the old version on the flash drive and was amazed to discover it wasn’t as good as I’d thought… the new one was much more complete. The most symbolic thing? That story is titled “Life.”
Who can doubt that an intelligent energy guides us, using the things that attract us, immersing us in distractions that determine our losses?
I’ve had to let go of many texts lost to tech mishaps; photos I deeply cherished—and each blow I came to understand as a lesson from fate. Books I lent out and never got back, over time I realized they had already given me what I needed.
They have their own mysterious journeys. And the ones that belong to me—like Isadora Duncan’s autobiography—I gave away three times and still managed to get again.
We must learn to let go, it’s true. We all know that in the end, we won’t even be able to hold onto our own bodies.
But resistance during the process is inevitable. Especially when you live in a country where losing a pair of sunglasses means enduring the annoyance of the sun through an endless summer, until fate (who knows when or how) grants you a replacement.