A Visit to the Paper Store

author's note:

Many years ago, when I was in the fourth grade, our teacher, Miss Simpson, held up a sheet of notebook paper to the class.

The sheet was clean except for a small pencil mark in one corner.  A student had thrown the sheet in the trash.

Though I wasn’t the culprit, I still felt a sense of shame.  Since that time, I have strived to treat all paper with the utmost respect.


A VISIT TO THE PAPER STORE

I once spent
an hour
well-spent
trying to find
what I could not--
to find a paper
of the right texture
and color--just a few sheets
a few pennies each.

My fingers tested
a number of grades.
Thicknesses.
My nose could still
smell the mill
in some of those
somnolent layers.

In a couple of stacks
I even detected a hint
of resin--
          reminding me
          that amber was valued
          as a jewel in times
          that aspired to the sublime.

But of course
no texture
or shade is ever
quite
the right one--

and yet

both the exquisite
and the cheap
can be experienced
as pure and perfect.

And though I did not find
what I could not find
one waking paper finally
spoke to me--begged me
to smudge its clean blanket,
to rip its tight fibers--

that paper was cake
meant to be eaten

--by me.

A leaf so fresh and moist
--so desirous
   of surrender--
I saw in that ripe skin
something of myself.

So when I relinquished
that slice to my scissors and ink,
I threw something of myself
to the wind--the wind
that carries us everywhere--

that disperses our sacrifice,
a sacrifice that never ceases to be
a happy one--

even though
what is cut away
can only return in
pieces of memory.

© 2010, Michael R. Patton

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