Isn’t funny how you can find things–little slips of paper with an old boyfried’s handwriting, a card envelope addressed to you and written in your mother’s hand, a receipt for gas purchased in a town you traveled through once–and how sometimes you are immediately brought back to the moment of the thing–where it was conceived–and a whole rollercoaster of nostalgia overtakes you? And then sometimes you find something that was perhaps very important to you at one time but you have no recollection of it. You look for clues and there are none. Your memory banks fail you.

I picked up one of my books yesterday and out fell a white piece of printing paper, folded in a square (and folded crookedly, so I folded it. I have a problem with straight lines). I could see through the folds that there was something printed on it. When I unfolded it, this is what I saw:

The minuteI heard my first love story
I started looking for you, not knowing how
blind that was.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.
Rumi

I wish I could remember how these words ended up with me. Did I find them online somewhere and print them out? Did someone give them to me? But I don’t remember. The sheet of paper remains a mystery and all that is important is that I’m glad I found it again.

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