This piece was published in the Spring 2008 edition of Montage, an undergraduate literary publication of the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.

A situation involving a lost spoon closely resembles that of a lost pen. The owner becomes aggravated when the desired object cannot be procured, then proceeds to exert every ounce of that annoyance in an attempt to locate the utensil in the most obvious last location. Confronted with the realization of its potential absence, the owner feels the chill of mild panic in the depths of his chest. Disappointed, dismay sets in, and the owner reminisces on the niceness of that particular tool, the good times he shared with it, and with sullen resolution the owner thinks, “Well, it was just a pen, after all.” The owner goes about his day, still wondering in the back of his mind if, should he retrace his steps, he might find his missing possession.

But the difference between lost pens and lost spoons lies in the perception of the party who rediscovers the item. A lost pen becomes public property; “fair game”, if you will.
A dropped pen completely transfers ownership when it is found (unless by some miraculous chance, the original owner should identify it in the hands of the new owner). No one asks any questions about the potential identity of the original possessor. The finder writes along on his merry way with his newfound writing utensil without scorn or inquiries from his fellows into his moral code.

Yet potential new owners avoid a lost spoon entirely. Someone placed this spoon in his mouth, licked it, used it to consume God knows what type of food, perhaps washed it only once a month. This spoon has rested here on the ground for several days, weeks, months. The person who dropped this spoon has some dread disease that is communicable by way of liquid, and he certainly drenched this bit of metal in his saliva. No one picks up a forgotten spoon of his own free will, and to command him to do so might qualify as cruel and unusual punishment based on the perceptions of the public. That brave and stupid adventurer who picks up that omen of misfortune has surely condemned himself to a slow, torturous end.

Imagine my surprise upon encountering just such an instrument of death on my way to class one afternoon. As I passed it, watching closely for any sudden movements, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for it there on the cold edge of the main quad. The southeast corner of the quad serves a large amount of pedestrian traffic, and I knew that not one of them would take a chance on picking up this solitary spoon. From time to time I notice empty food wrappings or various other bits of detritus littering the grass, but until that moment I had yet to spy an eating utensil.

The reason I must have even noticed the spoon in the first place probably had something to do with the sunlight rolling across its mirror surface, or the fact that I watch the ground often while I walk. Face-up and glaring at the passersby, this spoon dared any one of us to pick it up. Mostly what filled me was a curiosity as to who owned the spoon and under what circumstances it had come to reside on the southeast corner of the quad. Its owner had clearly lost it, because who would throw away a metal utensil in such well-kept condition? If it were plastic, it would not have been worth my time to think about it. I imagined someone in a hurry, a girl dressed in a winter coat, mousy hair with just a touch of frizz tucked under a knitted hat, her backpack full of textbooks turning this corner. The ghost of her walked past me, through me, still traveling on her way to catch the bus. No, not the bus–she looked healthy and probably rode a bike or rock-climbed, and her backpack was one with lots of strategically placed zippers and compartments, in one of which rested an empty Gladware container that had once held her lunch (obviously leftovers of something she cooked the night before). Inside, too, was the ill-fated spoon, doomed to fall from her unzippered knapsack without so much as a clatter upon the dark soil. Maybe she wore glasses. Maybe she was walking with her boyfriend. I wondered exactly what kind of person she was, or if her roommate had cooked the food instead, and how many round-trip journeys the spoon had successfully completed up to this point. I considered picking up her spoon but the precaution struck me that she would never find it if I moved it (although she probably would never find it now anyway, would not even realize it was missing until she returned home to her apartment after her arduous bike ride), and it remained entirely possible that she (or he) was nothing like the shadow that had crossed my mind as I too rounded the corner, going the opposite direction.

I continued my scenario. I considered what kind of food she had consumed, and decided it was healthy. Her hair was long, but maybe tied up loosely to keep from tangling in the chill wind. I predicted her annoyance at finding her backpack open, digging through it in vain to find her spoon, hot, soapy dishwater waiting in the double sink in the small kitchenette of the second-floor apartment. She heaved a disappointed sigh, consoling herself that it was just one cheap spoon of many, feeling guilty and concurrently too tired to ride back to campus to retrace her entire path over the course of the day. She resolved to look tomorrow on her way to classes.

I don’t recall if I saw the spoon again for days afterwards, or when, if at all, I stopped running across it, my eyes following the sunlight. Maybe she just didn’t exist. Maybe whoever dropped it never realized. Or someone had really thrown it there after using it. Why I cared so much, I didn’t know.