If You Catch Me at the Border I Got Visas In My Name...

There is a reason the traditional first anniversary gift is paper.  Something fragile--easily torn.  Something that cuts.  Something misplaced among the piles.  Something some would argue is becoming obsolete, or only made to look pretty, as a novelty.

Some paper is glossy and shiny-all surface.  You would have to shift it and look at just the right angle to really see it. Shuffle it around to make it look like you’re doing something.

Some is crafted and authentic.  You notice the weight of it.  How easily the ink glides over it.

Some is lined and ruled.

Some is soft enough to cry into.

Some is used as currency.

Some used to be something else entirely.

And some is made from elephant shit.

But some you scrawl your most personal thoughts on.  To lock away in a file cabinet, or stow in a shoe box.  And it knows something about you that is as personal as your handwriting.  To know a person by the curve of their Ys and the strong lines of their Ts.

You learn to fold your 5’8” frame like origami, to accommodate and compromise.  

You learn that it is a common misconception that ink is permanent.  That it is actually graphite that will not fade—though it can be erased.  And smudged into shadow. And written over.  And erased again.

You learn to work page by page, waste sheet after sheet, to rewrite and refold and rebind. And sometimes it gets balled up and thrown into the fire. 

But getting caught it the wind makes it litter, so you keep it stationary.