A Detective In the House

The clues are there. The notes. The writing. The phone numbers. The calendar. Especially the calendar holding all the secrets of what was done and will be done. He is bent over the cubby-holed desk, slippers, flannel bathrobe, searching through the familiar and seeing only the hidden, the missing, the opaque. The crime? Something stolen, precious and worse, it is just out of sight, next to the words, the notes, the writing, the calendar. Especially the calendar. So obvious the number, the day, yet not now the season. He finds her worried face again and continues. All those around him keep it from him- the secret is- nothing is gone, nothing was done. The detective searches for himself in the clues of unravelling time.