Lost

We are well into the second week after the mysterious disappearance of Malaysia Airlines Flight 370.  It's tremendously perplexing.  Despite data from a variety of sources and help from more than a dozen nations, no one seems to be closer to determining what happened to the flight, other than "it went missing."

We can well imagine the distress of the families and friends of those on board.  They are powerless to help with the search, and must entertain an ever-dwindling hope as well as an ever-growing despair.  They cannot determine whom to blame, from whom to seek consolation. They can rage at technology, or the pilots, or the airline, or faceless terrorists, or impotent government officials who have no answers. They are shouting into the wind.

Not knowing is a terrible thing.

What of the two hundred and thirty-nine souls on board?  We admit our fear: in all probability, they are lost. They leave in their wakes untied strings, desks with crumpled papers, piles of laundry. Milk spoiling in the fridge.  Bills to be paid.  Celebrations that will never occur, milestones that will never be reached.  Unfinished business. Unfulfilled pleasures.

Ghosts.

Those left behind, though not lost, are bereft. There will be no last words, no last kiss, no apologies for things said and unsaid.  A void of regret, anger, broken hopes, and love -- in the shape of a 777 airplane. 

I am not yours, nor lost in you,
not lost, although I long to be.
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still
a spirit beautiful and bright,
yet I am I, who long to be
lost as a light is lost in light.

― Sara Teasdale, Love Songs