Everyday Objects

Movie time is about to begin. Can you spot the TV remote in this cozy family room?

This bedroom looks ready for the day, but one blue sock has been left behind. Can you spot it?

I travel from room to room without feet, carry no luggage, and leave nothing behind. You open me to let me in, then close me to keep me out. What am I?

I travel with your keys but open no lock. I hold your name, yet I cannot speak. I circle your finger only when I am not on your keys. What am I?

I help you open doors, but the more I help, the smaller I become. What am I?

I hug your waist but never hold you close. I have a tongue, yet I never speak. What am I?

I stand in a room but never take a step. I have a face, yet no eyes. Press me once, and darkness runs away. What am I?

I steal your face each morning, then give it back in pieces. The wetter you make me, the less I can help. What am I?

I sit in a corner and swallow what you no longer need. What am I?

I stand beside you all day, copying every move you make. Yet I disappear the moment you need me in the dark. What am I?

I’m a little crowd that lives in your pocket. Push one of us, and we speak without a voice. What are we?

I swallow your words, keep them safe, and never speak them back. I grow thinner as I work harder. What am I?

I sit on a desk and beat without hands. I grow quieter as I work, yet when I stop, people rush to find me. What am I?

I have a twin beside me. Together we open a path, but alone I only wait. What am I?

I have a mouth but never eat. I welcome keys, yet I am not a door. Turn what enters me, and a room becomes private. What am I?

I sit beside you at every meal, yet I never eat. I wear a jacket but have no arms. When I am full, I am most useful. What am I?

I live in a pot but never need a drink. I hold a sharp secret and make loose things stay together. What am I?

I show you a face, but it is never mine. I grow dull when touched, yet a soft cloth brings my truth back. What everyday object am I?

I live between pages but never read. I hold your place, yet I have no hands. Pull me out, and I may tell you where you stopped. What am I?

I make you smaller every time you use me, yet I am bought to help you grow. What am I?

I arrive only after someone has finished, yet I am never invited. I may wear a paper hat, carry a bone, or hide beneath a peel. What am I?

I sit beside you when you rest, hold a small world at arm’s reach, and vanish into a wall when I’m not needed. What am I?

I wait in a row, each holding the same secret. Twist one of us, and the secret comes out in a spiral. What am I?

I hang around when you need a hand, but I never lift a thing. I have five empty fingers and no bones. What am I?

I stand by the door and swallow wet footprints, but I never take a step. What am I?

I sit beside your work and watch every mistake. I erase nothing, yet I carry the evidence away. What am I?

I have a mouth but never eat, a handle but no hand, and I hold a warm secret until you take a sip. What am I?

I hug your papers without tape or glue. I bend my two arms back to let go. What am I?

I have one face that welcomes you in and another that sends you away. I swing without walking, and I keep a room private without saying a word. What am I?

I travel in your pocket, yet I never pay a fare. I have a face but never blink, hands but never hold, and I can tell you when to leave without speaking. What am I?

I wake up folded, travel from room to room, and bring news without saying a word. What am I?

I sit beside your door and watch you leave. I greet you when you return, yet I never move from my place. Rain makes me speak, and muddy shoes make me tell the truth. What am I?

I sit by the door and speak only when pressed. I have no mouth, yet visitors hear me. What am I?

I have teeth but never bite. Each morning, I borrow your face, then return it brighter. What am I?

I am a small room you carry, with a mouth that closes tight. I hold your daily essentials, yet I never ask for rent. What am I?

I travel in pockets yet never take a step. I lose my face when I work, and I grow smaller each time I help. What am I?

I carry your weight all day, yet I never take a step. I rest beneath you, but when I am worn through, you notice me everywhere. What am I?

I arrive after every meal, yet no one sets a place for me. I am made from what was left behind, and I grow fuller as the table grows emptier. What am I?

I wait beside a window but never look outside. I am pulled down to begin and pushed up to vanish. I gather dust while keeping eyes from meeting. What am I?

I ride in a pocket, yet I never walk. I open a door without using a hand. What am I?

I sit beside a meal but never take a bite. I hold my breath in a small crystal room. One quick twist sends me out in a fragrant cloud, yet I grow lighter only when you invite me in. What am I?

I stand beside your plate but never eat. I wear a coat yet have no arms. I may hold a storm, though I never make it rain. What am I?

I arrive full of promises, then slowly grow lighter. I have a face but never speak, and a tail that gets shorter as I work. When I am gone, people search the room—not for me, but for what I carried. What am I?

I travel beside your words but never speak. One small step makes me strike, and when I do, a mistake disappears without leaving the page. I grow shorter as I work, yet I am not being used up for fuel. What am I?

I wait beside a seat, dressed for a job I never do. When the weather turns rude, I leave my post and take the place of something you wear. What am I?

I erase crumbs without eating, chase dust without feet, and leave the floor looking calmer than before. What am I?

I wait beside the door and keep small things from wandering under it. What am I?

I have a mouth but never eat. I bite down with a squeeze, then let go when you press me. What am I?

I cling to what you chose, yet I am not part of it. I speak in numbers without making a sound. Before you leave, I may be removed; after you leave, I may tell a different story. What am I?

I ride with you through every errand, but I never take a step. I hold what you choose, then wait by the door until you return. What am I?