Lost luggage.

I stood there, baggage claim number 4 in the Salt Lake City International Airport, staring. Staring at the silver mechanical carousel and the bags that circled it. I watched large bags and small bags, bulgy bags and oblong bags pass by me. But none of them were my bag.
"It'll come," my mom said.
But it never did. Eventually all of the bags had been claimed and the carousel was empty and shiny. I walked around and stopped and stared at the belt where I had seen the other bags come out. I hoped that mine would pop up and shoot out onto the carousel and all would be well. But it never did. I watched the belt come to a stop and I knew then that the moment had come upon me.
I was a victim of lost luggage.
My bag was out there, alone in that dark world of planes and rubber belts and men who wear yellow vests and hold orange lights. My bag was out there. And I had no idea where "there" was.
It's a strange feeling, losing your luggage. It's almost the same as not getting picked for a team. Or opening an empty mailbox.
It's a sad thing.
I asked myself, why? Why did I have to pack my favorite orange dress, my new leather boots, my expensive eye shadow, and my hair straightener all in the same bag? Why would I make myself that vulnerable?
And why did I care so much?
The woman in the office told me she was sorry. She tried to wrap my loss in promises of a $30 credit toward my next flight and assurances of a 99% recovery rate. I let these promises and hopes wrap around me and I tried to believe them with all of my heart. But one voice wouldn't stop asking, "But what if it's lost forever?"
My sister told me maybe I didn't want them to find it, maybe I wanted my luggage to be lost. She'd heard tales of enormous shopping sprees and new wardrobes. For a moment, "new wardrobe" hung in the air and I let its scent give me hope. Then I realized I didn't want the new, I wanted the old.
I drove home and felt light.
I missed a call. The number was a Washington area code, unfamiliar. In a moment of unprecedented bravery, I called them back, but there was no answer. My mind was racing. I sent a text to the number, "Do you have my luggage by chance?" I asked.
But there was no answer.
I began to imagine my life without my luggage. How could I ever get a new retainer? Did orthodontists keep teeth molds from past patients on record?
I wondered.
I feared.
I hoped.
I tried to carry on normally.
After all, it was just luggage. What if I had returned to Salt Lake City without my limb? Or without my eyes? Or without my mother? What if had I lost those things?
I was grateful.
But forgetful.
I had forgotten to include my luggage in my prayers.
I tried again.
"Please God, help them find my luggage."
And there was silence.
Two days later, 5:40 P.M., I received a call.
"Cara Gillespie?"
"Yes?"
"We have your bag."