Somewhere, on a scrap of paper

In Winesburg, Ohio, a doctor writes bits of poetry and words on tiny scraps of paper and puts them in his pockets. They stay in his pockets so long that they form tight little balls. He packages the poem balls and gives them to a hypochondriac patient as placebos. Poetry sustains the patient’s soul.

I wish my paper scraps were nearly as mystical and useful. Everywhere, I write random odds and bits, sometimes filling pages, sometimes on the tiniest piece of almost white paper on a Netflix cover. Each has its importance. I always say to Matthew, “Where is that piece of paper where I wrote…?” He’s given up answering. Months later my placebo scraps turn up and are meaningless.

Right now, I am looking at a page of paper that says things like “Jerry Solano Oct 4 Breast Cancer TWThr.” This is in a box, so I know it must be important. Near it is “Cococrickets Noelle-pink and orange yellow base Amerivespa.” This will shock my husband, but I actually know what these two things mean, except for “TWThr.” That obviously means “Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,” but, why? Normally my scraps lose significance quickly and I no longer remember why I wrote “Feazell Friday 12:00” and then scratched out all but “Feazell.”

Also on this page are “Chromeo MGMT.” In a circle. I know what these two mean. They are bands whose CDs I want to get. But where is the scrap of paper with that other guy described as “Prince meets so-and-so with a touch of something else.” The ad had me at “Prince.” And clearly that’s the only part I remember.

Who is mystery performer? Where is he written down? As I look for something else, what tiny ball of paper will I find in the bottom of my backpack, unroll, and wonder, “What does this mean?” when really it’s at last the name of the mystery performer?

I wish my paper scraps were placebos to feed my own anxieties, but, instead, they create new problems. Endlessly I ask, “Where is that scrap of paper where I wrote…?”