I Put It In a Safe Place
Of course, if I’d put it in my wallet with the other pieces of paper I got that day, I would have it in my hot little hands. But it’s not, because I wanted to put it somewhere extra safe. And now I can’t find it.
So I rack my brain, where is that place I deemed safe? I have torn apart my wallet, and it is not in any compartment. Nor is it in any crevice of my purse, although I did find my long lost lip gloss and an old piece of chewed gum in its wrapper. Sometimes, I stick things in the sides of my car door, but not this time.
Could I have stashed it in my jeans pocket for safe keeping, meaning to transfer it later? After rummaging through every pair of pants I could have worn that night, I come up with a crinkled movie ticket and an elastic, but not the piece of paper I was looking for.
Had it rained that night? Chances are it had, so I check the pockets of first my rain coats, and then every other possible option, including my ski jacket; although it most certainly wasn’t snowing. Nada. I must have stashed it in one of my trusty drawers, unfortunately there are many of these in my house. I should really do something about this.
Kitchen drawer? Utensil drawer? Basket under my island? Desk drawer? Sock drawer? Loose change drawer? Did I absentmindedly drop it in my daughter’s drawer? I open them with anticipation, and close them, crestfallen.
Did I use it as a bookmark? Grasping at straws, I rifle through the stack beside my bed, and then start on the magazines, but I’m starting to lose hope. I hit the recycling bin, but digging through the garbage yields nothing of importance, only paper cuts.
As I retrace my possible mysterious steps, I become more obsessed with finding the paper, not because of its worth, but because of the need to redeem myself, to show there was method to my madness. To prove to myself that safe places exist. Imagine what other treasures I will find there, assuming, of course, I find it.