Saturday's Storyteller: Beloved Chopstick
by Belinda Roddie Excuse me, but have you seen my beloved chopstick? I believe I left it in that Uber driver's cab after he took us from the festival. It's slender and refined and only has eyes for me. How will I ever eat my potstickers, sushi, fettucine, steak, and salad now? I asked your sister, but she was too busy playing clarinet. That damned sap had been estranged from the woodwind for so long that she now had to spend time with it, rekindling every note. I asked your brother, but he was riding his bicycle to his former high school, watching as the soccer field morphed into a performing arts center and football fields melted in the heat of incandescent bulbs. I thought my chopstick would go listen to folk music at the local bar, sitting where people could still have conversations without being drowned out. But I could not find him there. I thought my chopstick would hitch a ride across the bridge, American Idiot grunting in the ears of the driver. But I could not fi