in my sock drawer

Sometimes I wish I could go back. Go back and double check. Triple check. I was sure I put it there. One day it was there, the next it was gone. Lost in the Bermuda Triangle that was my sock drawer; that Amelia Earhart of an envelope. I can still see her handwriting on the front, the curves of the "M" in felt-tipped pen. I've circumnavigated that drawer dozens of times in the past 15 years, widening the gyre down into the bottom drawers. I come up empty-handed time after time.
* * *
Ankles crossed, I sink back into the couch. "Do you remember what he said?" I ask eagerly. "Yes." She curls her dark hair around her ear and tucks both her feet up and under just as she's done for years. She proceeds to tell me what we'd heard all those years ago. Advice that has stayed with me. I'm pretty sure I remember it correctly, but I wanted to hear her say it to make sure. I slouch deeper into the chair and feel my feet rise off the floor. Even now, years later, my legs aren't long enough to touch the ground. I pull one of the gold pillows in snug against my chest and survey our surroundings as she continues.
* * *
The hardest part is figuring out what to do with this space between. The space between all the mismatched socks and lost envelopes. The space between the stories and the advice. The space between today and tomorrow. No matter how hard I search, no matter how many people I ask, I'm the only one who can decide when to call off the search.