“Where does the other sock go when you put two in the dryer but only one comes out?”

“I have a book that explains that,” I told my visitor as I scanned my bookcase.

But the book wasn’t there.

“That’s funny. I was just leafing through it a couple of days ago. Or was that last month?” I rifled through a stack of books, papers and cereal boxes stacked against the wall. “It was right here.”

I dug through my travel bag. Peeked under the end table. Peered into the refrigerator. You never know. Strange things have appeared in my fridge before.

“It’s not here.” I scratched my head and scanned the living room again.

“You mean…?”

“‘Fraid so. It’s lost.”

Nine times out of 10 when I lose something, it’s because I stashed the item in a safe place so I wouldn’t lose it. Then I can’t remember where the safe place is.

It’s nearly as frustrating as the things I find that I can’t remember why I saved them.

My junk drawer contains two remote controls, seven important-looking screws, three mysterious keys that fit no locks that I have and a half-dozen operator manuals for devices I can’t remember ever owning.

But I keep them in case I ever trip over the lost things they belong to.

I carried a phone number in my wallet for years. It was on a scrap of torn paper. Just a number with no name. I’d lost all memory of to whom the number belonged and why I had it. I was afraid that if I dialed the number, it would go something like this:

“Um, hello, who’s this?”

“Grace.”

“Oh, uh, hi, Grace. Who are you? I mean, I have this number but I can’t remember why. This is Burt.”

“What! NOW you call? Two years too late? Jerk!”

And the phone would slam, and I’d still be lost on the who, the why and the whatever. I imagine a graceless Grace.

Finally, I lost the wallet, so I no longer worried about the found phone number — other than thinking I probably lost a friend I was supposed to call about something.

The changing of seasons is always exciting because I pull the coat or jacket out of the closet that matches the season and find all kinds of lost things in my pockets — a single glove, a rock-hard soft cookie, a fuzzy mint, six pennies and a charger for the phone I lost.

Losing things — it’s our national pastime. Or at least a favorite sport.

The great philosopher Adrian Grenier said, “I think winter wear is communal. You get some gloves and a scarf from the lost-and-found box, wash them, wear them for a while until you lose them. Then somebody else does the same thing.”

The great philosopher George Carlin said, “If I ever lose my mind, I hope some honest person will find it and take it to lost and found.”

Cartoonist Sara Morrissette drew a revealing panel once showing a cornucopia, a horn of plenty. But she labeled hers the “Horn of Lost Things.” Her basket shaped like a horn was stuffed plenty full of items like a single sock, receipts, shopping lists, earbuds, lipstick and even an umbrella.

Cartoonist Mark Godfrey depicted a couple of workers at a lost-and-found booth, with one of the workers, a bit of panic in his eyes, asking, “Now where did I put my keys.”

Someone else — I lost his name — noted that not all things lost should be found.

That may be true, but I sure would like to find that book. And I will, someday, in the last place I look for it.

“Why are lost things always found in the last place you look for them?” my visitor asked.

“Simple. Because once you find a thing, you stop looking.”

“Let me write that down. May I borrow a pen?”

“Sure. Um… let me see… doggone it, where did I set down that pen?”

I’m lost.

Find Burt at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.