Launched & Lost
About six months ago, I learned something important about physics, grief, and denim pockets.
I had worn a pair of jeans for part of the day—just long enough to justify hanging them back up instead of washing them. (Don’t judge. We all have “half-day jeans.”) As I folded them over the hanger, I heard that unmistakable clack—the sound of an AirPod case hitting a hard surface. If you’ve ever experienced this, you know what happens next.
AirPods do not simply fall.
They launch.
These things are not earbuds—they are tiny, white ballistic missiles engineered by Apple’s secret aerospace division. One second they were in my pocket, the next they were ricocheting off tile like caffeinated popcorn kernels.
I looked down and saw one AirPod… and the case… but not the second pod. So began the hunt.
Our closet floor is tile. Smooth, echoey, unforgiving tile. No shag carpet to soften the blow. No plush rug to gently cradle runaway technology. Just a physics playground designed for maximum rebound.
I crawled around on my hands and knees, peering into shoes, behind bags, on shelves, past the abyss that is the corner where old camera equipment goes to die. Nothing.
Angie joined the search—still nothing.
I widened the perimeter—under the dresser, under the bed, under the belief that gravity is real. AirPods can fly, you know. They are basically doves of the digital age. Except louder. And whiter. And more expensive.
Two days later, Angie did another sweep. Nothing.
I tried Apple’s locator feature—the one that’s supposed to make the missing AirPod chirp. Apparently, “chirp” translates to “whisper so quietly that only mice and angels can hear.”
A week later, determined not to be defeated by a tiny piece of plastic, I emptied the entire closet. Shoes—gone. Bags—gone. Even the three tripods and baseball bat in the corner—gone. Just tile. Cold, empty, smug tile.
Nothing.
I finally surrendered. I ordered a replacement AirPod. Synced it. Moved on with my life. Accepted the mystery. Maybe it time-traveled. Maybe it slipped through a wormhole. Maybe it’s living happily in Narnia with a family of fauns.
Months passed.
Then—this week—it got a little chilly in the house. Angie reached for her fluffy robe. As she swung it around her shoulders, something shot out of the cuff like it had been hiding in witness protection.
It bounced.
Again.
There it was—the long-lost AirPod. Not in the closet. Not under the bed. Not in the gravitational pull of the moon. But in the sleeve of a robe, like some kind of technological stowaway.
So is this story worth writing about?
Probably not.
But after the emotional journey, the crawling, the searching, the accusations, the theories involving quantum physics, and maybe a small haunting…
I needed closure.
And so I leave you with this:
Some things are lost, some things are found,
Some mysteries rest quiet and deep…
But the AirPods we think are forever gone
Are just hiding… waiting… in the robe where we sleep.
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