It is a beautiful fall-like night in August and before going out to walk the dog, it occurs to me that it is cool enough for a light jacket. I open my closet door, knowing just the jacket I'm going to grab. It even goes with what I'm wearing.
It isn't there.
It isn't on the floor where I thought it might have been after perhaps slipping off the hangar.
It's not anywhere.
I want to be wrong about it but I'm pretty sure it is somewhere, ripped, defiled, and reeking of Febreeze in the floor of my sister's room, car, or bathroom. It's not the first time. She's so bad about taking my clothes and shoes that I actually set aside shoes and clothes for her to wear when it just has to be something of mine. And she doesn't just borrow, she appropriates. And then she destroys. Couple that with the pitiful dying plant on my front porch that she walked past every day and didn't water, the clean bedsheets that she kicked on the floor, and the inexplicable presence of a macaroni cheese shell on the handle of one of my "clean" pots, and well, I understand how siblings end up on Dr. Phil.
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As an addendum to the post above, I like to note that my sister stopped by the house yesterday (while I was at work). This morning, as I was stepping into the shower, I discovered that she took my bar of soap.
I don't even know what to do with that.
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