"When there is no one else left in the world to find… come and find me."

It was written on a yellowed and tattered piece of paper, crumpled beside a trash bin at the back of a Chinese restaurant. If it hadn't been in script and written with a ballpoint pen, I'd think it was part of a tossed fortune cookie's fortune.

Let me start by saying, "I am not a trash digger." On average, I do not go around digging through trash bins; but this note caught my attention because it wasn't just crumpled, there was a pattern to it. The person who wrote it had folded it in squares and then triangles, and then seemed to pinch it into a crumpled mess in afterthought. I found it… odd, more than anything else. Maybe a little eccentric and weird also, but then who was the person picking up a discarded piece of trash outside a small Chinese restaurant? …Exactly.

It reminded me of when you make those little paper footballs that you play on a table with friends? You know, when your friend makes the goal post with their thumbs touching and the pointer fingers upward, and then you kick that little piece of triangular paper forward with the flick of a finger? That's what it seemed this paper was used for, but then discarded. Like, maybe it was a lousy football and they needed to make another.

But when I opened the paper… when I opened it what I saw were words that seemed so lost – so lost like the piece of paper.

It burned at the edges of my ears, right around the jaw line; you know when you think you might be getting choked up? For some reason, reading those words caught in my throat: …Come and find me.

Was it an invitation? …An invitation from the gods of fate? Someone wanted to be found…maybe? Were they lost? Perhaps… it was the whim of a part-time writer or a note scribbled down hastily because they had a bad day?

I was a photographer, not an investigative reporter. My dabbling in journalism was my hanging around the school newspaper and being asked to snap photos of the game on Friday night. I couldn't plead incurious or anal, because I wasn't. I was a photographer and at times a doodler, but I'd not written a lot other than papers in college, which I left one semester early after a bad break-up. Okay, it was more than a break-up. It left me feeling lost… like I'd never love again – and truth be known… I never did love again. I was a 30-something-year-old single woman. Maybe that's why the note hit me hard so that I choked up and stared at it and then stuffed it in my pocket – germs and all. Maybe in the back of my mind I wanted someone to find me also.

Lost – not just the title of an infuriating TV show, it was how I'd felt for the last 10 years traveling and photographing what I saw. Perhaps my lens was finding something for me.

Incurious…? It would be nice to lack curiosity. It brought me to delving into random jobs and unsure of where I lived. My photography gained enough reputation that I could make a living off freelance work, but I had to travel everywhere across the globe for my jobs. Was nomad still an occupation?

"When there is no one else left in the world to find… come and find me."

And now for some reason… I wanted to find this person and ask them "Why?" Why do you want someone with no more choices to find you? Wouldn't that make you the "last" choice? Who would want to be the last person on a list of choices? Don't people usually want to be first… in life… in love?