THE BEGINNING OF TIME...
I slip him on my wrist. He blinks his eyes open and the current time is flicking proudly from his face. He seems to have a little Mona Lisa smile on the edges of his squared off lips. I can see his breath and cadence are comfortingly regular and he seems to sit a little deeper in his Indigo glow bed. He slips nicely onto my wrist and I'm glad I'm getting used to him. I thank the checkout guy and bow my head with reverence for his Technological prowess. Humbled by the entire ordeal I silently vow to smile more brightly and with more authenticity for the next technologically advanced checkout guy I meet.
An awkward silence hangs in the air between us. I nervously collect the 8 foot rice paper and make a ridiculous attempt to restore it back into its original finger football, triangle form. It ends up looking like an origami nightmare and I shove it into my purse. I hurry to the door as I catch the image of its crumpled body peeking out from my purse. Its wrinkled head seems to plead for restoration.
TIME FOR RENEWAL...
The paper guy is a mangled mess. HE's all legs and hands sticking out at odd angles from his crumpled, battered body. The sting of inadequacy percolates up from somewhere deep inside me. Weirdly, I start thinking about paper Mache casts and how one could mend little broken paper bones. I remember his perfect triangular body and think of ways I could heal him. I wonder if yoga can help with the folding, if only I could find a soft, fluid paper-only yoga class that was gentle and kind enough for a trauma survivor.
On my way to the car I tuck the disorganized jumbled paper a little deeper into my bag so he won't get cold. As I head home, I ruminate on my dilemma: can eight-foot rice paper ever really return to its innocent babyhood of finger football games? I wonder: will he hold fond memories of how he fit so snugly into the recessed plastic triangle bed of his brothers watch box or be forever resentful for the way in which we failed him?
TIME TO GO HOME...
When I get home I turn on the desktop computer as the familiar whir of his fan and engine rouse him up from his evening nap. The big guy deepens his breath, stretches and yawns and blinks his face awake into a bluish glow. The Google screen appears from behind the curtain. The empty Google search box seems so empty and alone, all white and rectangular. It winks at me, pleadingly for conversation. His digital arms reach out for a relationship of some kind. I tilt my ear closer into the lonely white rectangle and sure enough I hear his tinny, rectangular voice call out to his little marching letter friends who wait patiently on the keyboard. In alien language, he asks them to line up in an orderly fashion along his belly so he will feel full and purposeful again.
A puff of air blows past my lips as I poise my hands over the keyboard. The letters hold their breath for the anticipated reunion. I pause for half a second and type "Origami Experts". The letters dutifully tumble into his white belly. He seems to expand with the arrival of his friends. I smile and secretly roll my eyes.
Copyright (c) 2010 Suzanne Wells
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