Everything was going along as it normally does during evening hours … when I begin to wind down the day, post dinner and my focus shifts to organizing areas that need organizing and prepping for the next day. Does that sound Taurus of me, or what?

As I was picking up and folding clothes, I felt something in one of the back pockets of a pair of jeans.

Unsuspecting and curious, I reached in. Not prepared for what I was about to find, because how does one ever prepare for those little things that hit us?

Or, more appropriately, in this instance — slam us. Because slammed I was. All over a little, folded up métro ticket, that I had stuck in a back jean pocket, something — for the record — which I never do.

It’s a general rule of thumb I have : put nothing in pockets. And I know that’s the whole point of pockets, but to me, that’s just too much to handle, too much risk to take.

Then I have to remember what I put in said pockets and inevitably I’ll then think I had more of something that’s not there or can’t find something to which I swear I did put for {temporarily} safe keeping.

Just doesn’t work for me. It’s like bathroom trash cans. I never use them. Ever. Trashcans in a bathroom are supposed to be used? That’s news to me.

There I was. Suddenly feeling weak in the knees, leaning up against the side of my bed, holding a washed-up, crumpled up, ticket.

But I can’t say ticket. It doesn’t do it the justice it deserves. It’s like that thing held and represented my entire summer, my entire France. That’s right — a whole country, all in an f-ing métro ticket. There’s a revelation for you.

And just like that — I was back. Back in le métro. I tried to rack my brain … what stop, where was I, that I had the very un-me like idea to put it in my pocket.What had I been doing? I tried to think and think and couldn’t locate the place or time, nor even a memory.

I just kept continuing to stare at that little piece of hard worn paper, which suddenly had me lost and then, properly, found.

Lost for all the lostness about it.

A lost trip. A lost time. A lost Maman all to myself. Lost croissants and gardens and crepes and all that cigarette smoke and the general clink and clatter of cafés filtering into our open windows late at night.

Found because the ticket was found, therefore : proof.

That all those beautiful, beautiful, heart inspiring and stopping things did occur. That I am found and reminded and remembered in these small mementos, that to many, could seem and rightly are, trash.

Except they’re not really trash, are they? If we’re being honest. Because we all have them, we all keep them … our own little pieces of us we carry around in these things. Silently telling our stories. That hold us together in some way.

That keep us lost and then found and then back to lost and found all over again.

I need to be lost to be found. It’s a place that keeps me growing, that continues to push me. So I don’t get too comfortable, even when getting comfy is exactly what I want to do.

But if we’re here, really here and present, we can’t just chillax on the plush leather couch all the time, can we? Well, I guess we could, but what fun would that be?