Paper Trail
I still have a clear memory of myself at age 18 in Big Lots, shopping with my mother. She was helping me buy supplies before I headed off to college. Her, squatting and rifling through stacks of paper pads; me, watching, on the verge of adulthood but still very much used to being catered to by my mother.
I remember that when my mom would talk to her sister, they compared notes on children. Each anecdote about one sister's child would be answered with an anecdote about the other sister's child. Points of pride shared like pieces of currency. Each mother rubbing her mental thumb over the bits of knowledge she had collected about her child, like smoothing a stone in her hand. One such note I recall my mother sharing was the type of notebook paper I liked. "Meloney likes the college ruled. The kind with a perforated edge."
My mother didn't graduate high school. She didn't live long enough for me to get to a phase where I might have asked her about that. She was a bright woman, a hard worker who would do anything for her family. But I can't speak to what happened in her youth that stopped her formal education. I do, however, know that she was proud to have a daughter who had graduated high school and was going to college. I saw it shine in her eyes over the years as I earned good grades, as I declared a desire to learn, as I pursued my education. Her eyes read, "I made that."
On that box store floor, she pulled a large stack of tablets, college lined, perforated, from the back of the nearly empty bottom shelf. Several tablets shrink wrapped in plastic. I can still see her joy at not only finding my favorite kind of paper at the eleventh hour, but also because they came at a great deal. We exchanged smiles and then, leaning forward once more, she pulled a second pack of the paper from the shelf. Perhaps 10 tablets in all. More than I was likely to need right now, but such a good deal and just what I liked.
In just over a year after she bought those tablets, I would mourn the loss of my mother. I would never receive another gift, never get another token of her love in my lifetime. But here was this paper. So many tablets stacked in my closet waiting to be used.
Having found that college used relatively little of my paper due to the increased use of computers and free printing at the computer lab, I graduated with quite a few of those tablets still in the package. I moved to my first adult apartment, worked through my first job, entered and graduated grad school and moved on to work as a social worker. Through moves from apartments to homes, through marriage and child birth, through the loss of my son and the adoption of my daughter, I have carried that ever shrinking stack of tablets through my life. Watching my daughters draw in the pages, I have felt sentimental, as though part of my mom made it all this way, 27 years and counting, to spend what time she could in whatever small way with her grandchildren. Her son in law. Her daughter.
Her daughter, who likes college ruled paper. Perforated at the edge.
We just finished the penultimate tablet. In my office, there is one final, lone tablet lying on the shelf. One of many signs of how very many years have passed since what would become one of our final days together. I have explained to my oldest daughter where the paper came from. As she looked at the cardboard exterior left from the tablet she declared, "I would save that forever!" No, I explain to her, we can move on from the cardboard. The memories made are in my heart and they are there forever. No need to keep the shell.
And yet, there is such a sadness in contemplating that final tablet. Most of it's pages are already adorned with children's drawings. I will re-use them for grocery lists and other notes. I will make that paper last as long as I can, but I will use it. It has become the unexpected symbol of my mother being active in my life.
And maybe, just maybe I will save that final cover. Because when I see those tablets the smallest part of me still feels her thumb moving over me, rubbing and smoothing this stone that was so precious to her.
I remember that when my mom would talk to her sister, they compared notes on children. Each anecdote about one sister's child would be answered with an anecdote about the other sister's child. Points of pride shared like pieces of currency. Each mother rubbing her mental thumb over the bits of knowledge she had collected about her child, like smoothing a stone in her hand. One such note I recall my mother sharing was the type of notebook paper I liked. "Meloney likes the college ruled. The kind with a perforated edge."
My mother didn't graduate high school. She didn't live long enough for me to get to a phase where I might have asked her about that. She was a bright woman, a hard worker who would do anything for her family. But I can't speak to what happened in her youth that stopped her formal education. I do, however, know that she was proud to have a daughter who had graduated high school and was going to college. I saw it shine in her eyes over the years as I earned good grades, as I declared a desire to learn, as I pursued my education. Her eyes read, "I made that."
On that box store floor, she pulled a large stack of tablets, college lined, perforated, from the back of the nearly empty bottom shelf. Several tablets shrink wrapped in plastic. I can still see her joy at not only finding my favorite kind of paper at the eleventh hour, but also because they came at a great deal. We exchanged smiles and then, leaning forward once more, she pulled a second pack of the paper from the shelf. Perhaps 10 tablets in all. More than I was likely to need right now, but such a good deal and just what I liked.
In just over a year after she bought those tablets, I would mourn the loss of my mother. I would never receive another gift, never get another token of her love in my lifetime. But here was this paper. So many tablets stacked in my closet waiting to be used.
Having found that college used relatively little of my paper due to the increased use of computers and free printing at the computer lab, I graduated with quite a few of those tablets still in the package. I moved to my first adult apartment, worked through my first job, entered and graduated grad school and moved on to work as a social worker. Through moves from apartments to homes, through marriage and child birth, through the loss of my son and the adoption of my daughter, I have carried that ever shrinking stack of tablets through my life. Watching my daughters draw in the pages, I have felt sentimental, as though part of my mom made it all this way, 27 years and counting, to spend what time she could in whatever small way with her grandchildren. Her son in law. Her daughter.
Her daughter, who likes college ruled paper. Perforated at the edge.
We just finished the penultimate tablet. In my office, there is one final, lone tablet lying on the shelf. One of many signs of how very many years have passed since what would become one of our final days together. I have explained to my oldest daughter where the paper came from. As she looked at the cardboard exterior left from the tablet she declared, "I would save that forever!" No, I explain to her, we can move on from the cardboard. The memories made are in my heart and they are there forever. No need to keep the shell.
And yet, there is such a sadness in contemplating that final tablet. Most of it's pages are already adorned with children's drawings. I will re-use them for grocery lists and other notes. I will make that paper last as long as I can, but I will use it. It has become the unexpected symbol of my mother being active in my life.
And maybe, just maybe I will save that final cover. Because when I see those tablets the smallest part of me still feels her thumb moving over me, rubbing and smoothing this stone that was so precious to her.
Comments
Post a Comment
Every comment is practically perfect in every way!