A Minor

I never played with dolls, instead paper was my best friend,

Dad’s business had folded during the depression and he brought home an Underwood typewriter, stapler and an ample supply of blank paper.

I had a small desk in the corner of the kitchen where I sat up my office. And possibly that is when and where my obsession with paper began.

While I am a devotee of the Internet and cherish the ability to communicate via email, facetime and google, I still record everything meticulously on paper,

And at this stage of my life, it is distinctly unhealthy since there is more paper in my life than I can possibly describe.

It hovers in closets, and hides in dresser drawers.

It lurks in purses, and pockets.

And gives me comfort and yet, it is no longer a valid means of keeping data

I have moved on, albeit reluctantly, into many chapters of life, but yet I have not begun to come close to closing the chapter with paper.

It is never colored, but always the same distinctive white I inherited from Dad’s office.

While I have many valid memories, I cannot recall when the desk and typewriter disappeared.

Possibly, that was because it was so traumatic to lose my playmates. Or did I discover my treasure hoard had suddenly disappeared when I was at school?

It matters not because I quickly began another one, My patient and loving husband watched in silence. When we relocated and I moved ahead with our newborn infant, he solved the growing problem with an immense bonfire

He, of course, left 15 years ago, and paper came back into my life. Tiny insignificant pieces with an important phrase or tidbit of thought seemingly grew into the vast supply now threatening to mushroom out of control.

And I wonder if they are a substitute for loneliness or perhaps an antidote to fear. So perhaps I should not be too concerned about what hopefully, might be considered a minor idocricacy