Papers

My mom brought by a cardboard box full of file folders, dated 2011, 2012, 2013, 2009. Inside the folders, envelopes stuffed with receipts and old bank statements, my dad’s slanted penmanship “Home Reno” “John and Kathy” “Ann”. A paper trail of what he created, where he spent his days, and who he spoke to. The government has no need to read these now. But I do.

Inside the envelopes, the receipts are neatly organized, held together with tiny paperclips - yellow sticky notes on their fronts. “Subs - $3,700”. “Office - $505.20”. “Food - $1398.08” Always written in capital letters. Always in pencil, never in pen. Each phrase, underlined.

On August 23, 2012, he went to Staples Business Depot on Davidson Ct in Burlington ON. He purchased a roll of mini stretch wrap that cost 11 dollars and 99 cents. Paid with a 20, and took home 6 dollars and 45 cents in change. It came to $13.55 with tax. Earlier that year, also on the 23rd, but of the month of June, again at Staples on Davidson Court, this time purchasing a package of 30 pieces of lead for his HB 0.5 mm pencil. Total: 7 dollars and change.

A 10 year old receipt from the local bookstore, and though I can barely make out the long faded ink, I know it was for a black Moleskine notebook - the weekly one, with space on one side for notes. His paper brain; always completely filled by the end of December. $28.25, paid in cash.

In the mornings when I wander down to the studio, I open the door to the woodstove, lay strips of wood across each other and pull out an envelope. I roll the receipts into tiny tubes and lay them under the network of kindling. Pull a lighter from the dish on the counter, open the damper, and roll my thumb over the spark wheel. Then they are lit, and they burn. The flames jumping from paper to tinder - like the transfer of life from one to another. I am dreaming of him as I set his paper trail ablaze.