My first memories were of paper. Big bright white sheets flying through the air and being ripped free only to float down perfectly on the counter. 

I remember balling up tiny pieces of paper in my fast little fists. I remember my mother’s laughter. 

My parents owned a butcher shop on the outskirts of town. I grew up inside shop windows, between flashes of white packages, through the smell of salt and meat. I took my first steps on the stoop of the shop. I learned to sit up and roll over between crates in the storage room. I learned words spoken over the tops of counters. But I never spoke. I couldn’t speak. 

My father became frustrated with me. He labeled me stubborn, lazy, not useful to him or the business. But my mother was different. 

She suggested paper. 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s