To that end, I donated a set of ice skates a week ago to Community Thrift. I haven't gone ice skating in a long time and instead of nagging myself that I should, I just gave them away. I'll never see those ice skates again, and I'll never know what happens to them next.
I won't know that someone bought them last Friday for an art piece she was working on - a giant replica of a polar bear that will skate across the Alaskan ice, making polar bear noises and broadcasting a webcam and warning the real polar bears away from thin ice.
I'll never find out that next week, halfway through the project, she'll get an overseas teaching job she really likes, and so she'll give the ice skates to her little brother instead. I'll never find out they have the same shoe size.
I won't find out that he gets excited about ice skating now that he lives near an ice rink. I'll never find out that he takes a job there two years later as a skating instructor, nor that he'll meet his wife there and they'll get married in the rink in a Wedding on Ice.
I'll never find out that his wife also has the same shoe size and starts wear the skates as her backup skates. Neither I nor her husband will ever discover that she spends her private time as a monster-fighting assassin, lopping off vampires' heads with a razor-sharp spin kick from the very shoe-blades I gave away. Her husband will think that the stains on the skates are just rust, and I, of course, will never hear any word of it.
I will never know how many times she saves the world with those skates. And I won't find out that, ten years from now, she'll teach a new generation of wintery vampire slayers, and she'll pass the blades on to her favorite student.
I won't know about when that student turns against her master and joins the other side. I won't find out that the evil Dr. Meticulous installs a host of nanotronic enhancements to those skates. I won't find out about her reconciliation and rehabilitation. I'll never hear one word of her adventures in space, skating on the fictional ice planet of Hoth, fighting zwilniks and Space-Communists. I'll never hear of her bittersweet death, in which she will shuffle off this mortal coil but leave fragments of her consciousness in the nanocomputers of those same ice skates.
I won't know about the coverup efforts, where all her possessions are collected and returned back home. I won't know about her grieving parents, who fail to recognize their still-kinda-living daughter in those skates. When they leave the skates in a box outside their house among so many other keepsakes and memorabilia they will feel too sad to keep, I won't know their significance.
I will walk right past that box, in fact, on my way to a cooking class, and I'll have no idea those skates were ever mine, nor where they will have been!
I won't know about Dr. Meticulous' very thorough efforts to recover those skates, nor that he will successfully find them. I won't know about the way her consciousness, in those skates, convince the Doctor to turn to good. I won't know about her reconciliation with her mentor. I'll never find out the way that Dr. Meticulous himself is bitten by a lycanthropic polar bear, and takes the skates up to Alaska, and the happy days that sentient skates and werebear spend on the renewed ice caps.
Eventually, I will see their holovid show, where the figure-skating polar bear wins the Olympics, but I will have no idea those skates were ever mine. Really, I'll be paying more attention to the dancing bear...
...and wondering where he got that snazzy vintage bowtie.