【Written by Reese San Diego】

When I was younger, my parents would scold me for the tiny bits of paper that scattered my floor. I would spend countless hours at my desk hacking away at brightly colored construction paper, scrawling on printer paper, and breathing life into all the images in my head. The scraps dotted my floor: sharp corners left over from rounding out hearts and circles and the perforated edges of freshly ripped spiral-bound sheets. I always tear off the perforation. I like the process too. It’s delicate and meticulous––two things I like to be. Occasionally I work too quickly and tear through the margin of the paper. My haste and carelessness stare me in the face as I take my pencil to its light blue lines.  

I can’t possibly conjure up what all those pieces of paper turned into anymore. I just remember constantly sitting for hours in the warm light of my desk. Once for a school assignment, we were supposed to write down things that made us smile. I was sitting at my desk brainstorming with my mom, and I told her that whenever I draw a smile on someone’s face, I smile too. In my best interest, she suggested writing down more tangible things, like being with my sisters, or petting my cat, but I still always think of that moment, and how, when I was younger, the corners of my mouth would turn up in sync with the stroke of my pencil.  

I would roll my eyes when my parents told me to clean up the leftover paper. The pieces were so small and impossible to pick up. One by one, I would press a single finger into the ground, the scraps sticking to the balminess of my skin. I threw each piece carefully into the miniature white trash can underneath my desk. After several repetitions, I would step back and admire my handiwork.  

I’m twenty now, and I’m sitting at my desk hunched over a project. It’s a different desk and a different room and the lightbulb is fluorescent, but I’m coming to the end of a several-hour session of cutting up pieces of paper and rubbing dried-up gluestick off of my fingers. I gather up the large scraps to save for later and put all my pens and pencils back in their places. I finish clearing off the top of my desk. When I step back, I see several indiscernible flurries of paper scattered around my feet. I move to my hands and knees, clearing the floor till it looks spotless.