I heart paper

A small hand wraps around a thick crayon, sliding it back and forth across a sheet of paper.  Scribbles that mean nothing yet mean so much to the parent who proudly displays the abstract art on the refrigerator door. 

The small hand uses a thick pencil to trace letters in a kindergarten workbook.  Trace a line of letters, write your own freehand.  The letter C looks like a banana, while the letter D is as fat as can be.  Teacher inks a stamp and impresses a “well done” on the paper for the effort.   All the other children are right-handed, so, hand-over-hand, the teacher helps each one learn to form the letters on their pieces of paper.  But the small hand is a leftie, so she must make do the best she can.

Years pass, and the small hand grows long.  She learns to write compositions, essays, and book reports.  She loves the beginning of each school year only because she can buy new notebooks, pencils and books.  The hand touches the blank pages of the notebooks, promising them that what she writes will be important and above all, be neat.  And she promises the pencils that they will not be chewed on.  Promises that are kept for about a week.

Before emails and text messages became popular forms of written communication, the hand writes letters and cards to family and friends.  She eagerly awaits the cards and letters she receives in return; indeed, some of them remain cherished possessions throughout her life.  She falls in love over a poem written to her on vellum paper.  Love that is kept alive with words written on cards, notes and even napkins.

These days the hand uses her cell phone more often than she would care to admit.  But she still treasures new notebooks with its endless possibilities, and she still thrills to receive a card or a letter from a loved one.