by Ali MacLeod
Loss. We’ve all felt it, to varying degrees, and frankly, it’s never easy to get over. There’s something especially tragic about missing something that’s no longer there. And it’s even sadder that, in most cases, nothing can heal the wound except time, positivity, and the company of good friends.
That’s why I was so upset when I lost my banana last week.
It was a good banana. Long, but not excessively phallic. Free from blemishes. A healthy yellow. I had bought it around noon at Andrews to accompany two bottles of chocolate milk and a cookie, or as I so dubiously call it, “lunch.” However, I wasn’t super hungry after my even more dubious breakfast (sushi from the night before—yeah, I know). So, I tucked the banana away into one of the side pockets of my incredibly stylish Urban Outfitters backpack securely and safely—or so I thought.
After a full afternoon of meetings and class and sobbing quietly in the bathroom and more meetings, I retired to a booth in the Blue Room for a few minutes with friends. Here, I looked in the pocket of my bag for the first time since lunch.
And alas, gone was my beloved banana.
Initially, this discovery made me laugh. I had, after all, unleashed a rogue banana on this campus, and it could have been anywhere south of Andrews and north of Wayland. I pictured someone happening upon it in confusion, perhaps wondering for a moment if they had encountered a Mario Kart obstacle in real life. I imagined a professor finding it at the start of her 9AM lecture and questioning why her students don’t gift their teachers apples like normal, well-adjusted fruit benefactors. But soon, I began to conjure more dire circumstances. What if no one ever found my banana? What if it was doomed to brown and bruise, sad and alone forevermore? Or, worst of all, what if it got picked up and eaten by one of those horrid people who insists on peeling it upside down?
So, after my last meeting of the night, I went on a quest. I stopped in every room I could remember setting foot into since lunchtime. I racked up an extra 3,000 steps on my Fitbit just searching. But no banana to be found.
As the week marched on, my outlook grew bleaker. My efforts were for naught. Three days after my banana went missing, I gave up. I bought and ate another one. Guilt surged through my veins along with my recommended daily intake of potassium. But I had to move on. All hope was lost.
But then yesterday, I saw this on friend and fellow Rib writer Nicole’s Snap Story.
Rejoice, believers all. The prodigal son is returned.
Images via and via Nicole Martinez.
