Where the hell are you? I know I heard you hit the hardwood floor a couple weeks ago during board game night. You’ve gotta’ be somewhere right? I had to finish the game using Thimble. Thimble!? What a wussy token! I felt like a schmuck.
I know you’re not under the dining room table. I swept my yard stick under the credenza, but you’re not there either. I even went so far as to shine my flashlight under the loveseat in the living room—knowing you simply couldn’t have traveled that far without help—and discovered only several dust bunnies, a pocket comb I thought was gone forever, and a hideous dead insect my Audubon Field Guide has identified as an Alfalfa Weevil.
I’m stumped. I don’t have a cat to have knocked you into the basement. I certainly would’ve felt the searing pain coursing through my foot if I’d stepped on you in socks. God knows I haven’t run a vacuum cleaner since the summer of 2006.
The only other explanations I can figure are supernatural interference or divine intervention. Did someone once die in my house in a tragic Monopoly accident, and is coming back to extract revenge? Is God testing me, taking stock of which of the remaining tokens I’ll choose as “mine” from here on out? He wants me to choose the shabby shoe right? It demonstrates modesty.
Anyway Battleship, if get this letter, please come back. The other tokens miss you too. Man on Horse even pushed through the ripped corner of the game box and went looking for you a few nights ago. Thank god he didn’t make it far. Scottish Terrier’s fur is matted with dried tears. As for Wheelbarrow...let’s just say he’s in the dumps.
Sorry. My sense of humor has helped keep me going.
If you’re not found in three days, I’m calling off rescue efforts. Cannon will fire a salute, and game night will go on. However, it will never be the same.