I have often wondered. Wandering in my memories, breathing in my past, asking for directions. I have thought that losing oneself is the best way to find others. This much of this memory I remember:

It was a hot and sticky day, a day in july perhaps. Some relatives had just come into town and we were showing them this city, and decided to step into a large mall. Of course, we were annoying kids, like kids can be. The four of us running around was too much for  the four adults to handle. One in Sears, the other splashing water onto themselves, one loudly asking where the ducks were going. It was bound to happen.

One finally got lost. It had to be my brother. We looked in all the places we had been to within the mall. We asked around. Anxiety and fear slowly creeping in, filling up the spaces my mother would usually use to breathe with. Her second child, her only son, this was horrific.

How would you explain to the family that you lost a child, with four adults watching over the place? 

But no one would need to answer that question. We found him, after informing the security. They told us he had gone to a restaurant and conveniently, he tells them that he is lost. Smart kid, I wished I had gotten lost, the frenzy of it all, he was right under our noses eating spaghetti and strawberries. They had called home a few times, thinking we had gone home, he remembered that much, no not names but numbers. 

That day I made a pact, if I were ever to loose myself I would do it in a place that had good food.