My mother has lost the little gold penknife
my father used to open small packages,
and it’s driving her nuts that she can’t

find it, she says, as her ride arrives for
her evening excursion. It has to be on
the side table, she insists, so I bend over

the kidney-shaped, three-legged
platform by her easy chair strewn with
all manner of stuff—tissues, her phone

(which should be in her purse),
reading glasses, rubber bands from
the day’s newspapers, kitty fur likely

plucked from the big, fuzzy guy who
loves her lap—but no penknife. She leaves;
I move her chair, dive under the table,

take in the avalanche of books and paper
careening toward the floor. I pull it all
toward me, a few books at a time,

a handful of folded newsletters, four
identical pamphlets on CBD oil, books,
books, books. It would be easy to judge,

except that I, too, have at my house
stacks of paper threatening to topple.
I have inherited the too-many-books

gene from her. On my knees I do penance
for my own acquisitive sins as I sort
and stack, shake and look for… ah ha!

The little penknife slides from its hiding
place between (of course) the newsletters.
I hold it up like found treasure, place it

atop the cell phone where I hope she’ll
find it. Then I head for her bathroom to
try to conjure up her favorite nail file

that’s gone missing. And while I’m at it,
could I look for her charm bracelet?
I, who struggle to locate things I have

misplaced in my own house, me, whom
my family saw as scattered, a bit flaky,
have become the finder, a backup

for my mother’s dimming eyes, funny
since mine miss so much, but in other ways
seems only fair—since she, after all,

was the one who gave me mine,
the hazel pair that look so much
like hers.