I
pass back and forth through a small sheaf of concertinaed printer
paper. First I ease off the edges - the long ribbons full of holes
that were once deemed necessary to guide the paper through the
printer. Now my roller welcomes one sheet at a time - although on
most days the lines are a little skewed, but that suits my writing.
I hold the bunched edges in my hand and note a fleeting thought - if
we had a gerbil or a child they might have fun with these cast-offs.
Then
I separate each sheet from the one before it and the one that
follows. A swaying rhythm builds in me as I go. And I think of how
we're still working our way through the stationary supplies that my
father liberated from his eighties office job. A brown-jacket with a
cardboard box under one arm - topped with the name of the woman in
charge of such supplies. At least he never came home with her under
his arm.