I take the smooth paper between my hands and read it. It’s trash; terrible, horrible, I can’t stand it anymore. I crumple it up so it becomes rough and compact, wrinkling its contents, squeezing it in between my angry hands. I dominate over this piece of paper, this piece of nothing. But then – regret, remorse, doubt. I take this crumpled ball and start to slowly unravel it. Now it’s a leathery texture, wrinkled and worn like an old pirate’s map. Give it a couple more years and it will yellow and fade like one. I sigh. Smooth it out. Maybe it’s not all that bad. A bad grade, a letter to a friend, a letter to a lover, a telegram that someone’s just died. A note you weren’t supposed to find, written about you. And not so nice things. I am in an empty classroom with open windows. It is a 0% humidity spring day. The kids are playing at recess outside. I’m old enough to be their teacher, but insecure enough to be outside with them. I miss the smell and feel of empty classrooms. It’s a private moment that will be.
