Moving in with a significant other brings about one of life’s great challenges: combining belongings. The start of my girlfriend’s and my cohabitation brought about a great purging, for we both carried numerous artifacts from a previous marriage. Of the many overlapping categories of possessions, a plethora of dining utensils filled our kitchen drawers. While I enjoyed the thin, circular construction of my set’s handles, which allowed for agile maneuvering and control, I did not wage a battle when my girlfriend opted to keep her utensils in the kitchen and relegate mine to the downstairs kitchenette. This arrangement, however, created a mystery in our happy little home.

My girlfriend’s utensils are fine enough; they get food from plate or dish to my mouth, in that capacity fulfilling their most vital duty. I am, however, skeptical of the spoons. Her utensil set has three spoon sizes. There is the large spoon, best utilized for soup or administering adult-size doses of cough syrup. Then, we have what I consider to be the standard spoon, useful for everything from cereal to applesauce. When asked to grab someone a spoon, this is the size you would reach for. Lastly, there is the small spoon. Barely able to eclipse one of my nostrils, this spoon is best suited for eating one Cheerio at a time, or, I suppose, putting sugar in coffee. Children would also find this spoon useful for general eating.

While the three main spoon sizes meet all of our spoon needs, there is an interloper. Between the small and standard spoons lies another, dissimilar in both design and, well, spoon shape. It is the only spoon of its kind, and, therefore, does not fit in one of the established spoon slots in the utensil drawer. Seeing it, I wonder about its origins and the story behind its appearance in the drawer.

While I question the spoon’s provenance, I know I will never use it; the shroud of mystery is too strong. What if the spoon is cursed, or what if the spoon found its own way into the drawer and neither my girlfriend or me wants to ask the other why the spoon is there? That’s the other thing; I am pretty sure the spoon belongs to my girlfriend (she uses it), and the enigma could be easily solved by asking her about it.

I like not knowing though. There is a certain level of excitement in pulling John Doe spoon from the dishwasher and rolling the dice to determine which utensil organizer slot claims it this week. I enjoy imagining a backstory where the spoon came over from Europe with a great grandparent, perhaps fleeing war or simply wanting the opportunity for a better life. Passed down from one generation to the next, the spoon now resides in our kitchen, holding multiple lifetime’s worth of stories. Most likely, if I ask about the spoon’s ancestry, I will receive a simple, “Oh, my mom left that here one weekend and I’ve just never given it back.” Lame.

Who are you, little spoon? Where did you come from? What insights do you hold within your matte silver finish? I may never get answers, but as long as you do not haunt me, I am okay with being in the dark.