I once held a sentiment dear to my heart. I named it Pomona and gave it free reign. Pomona was quirky, but stayed in the house with a crippling fear of losing its balance in public and shaking too much while I ate my corned beef. So I let my dear sentiment stay in while I roamed; Pomona was grateful and gave me more trust while lying in bed and burning the toast. When the house burned down, Pomona escaped and called 911, then sat on the curb while I got the good news.
Pomona was gone when I rushed to the spot where my house used to be. I wasn’t surprised. I called my ex-wife and I moved in with her. I swallowed my pride and I waited in vain for my poor lost Pomona to find me again. It didn’t. I got my insurance check and boarded a flight to New Zealand, to hide in my sorrowful, uprooted life and wait for new sentiments to fix my depression. They didn’t.