In the stationery shop, I stare at the shelves of writing paper. So many different types: coated, uncoated, laid, bond or woven. Gloss, silk, matt, patterned or parallel lines. Smooth or textured. Pastels or strong primary colours. Which size? My mind blurs. It’s only paper, what does it matter? Of course it matters. It matters more than anything. Bert has six notes for Rita. One pack of fancy cards contains four. Why four? Why not five? So I need two packets. But will the extra four allow for enough mistakes? Perhaps I should buy three packets. The envelopes come in packs of seven. Why seven? And can I print on this paper?
My hands tremble as I scour the shelves, trying to find matching envelopes. Self-adhesive, or folded; two versions of myself. A challenge, a dare. Choose this and it defines you. Which is best? To stick myself together again, or fold and admit defeat?
Gerry would have done this. He would have gone shopping for the small cards that contained his notes and letters, knowing it was for me to read after his death. Did he choose just any paper or did he care? Was he pragmatic about it? Was he emotional? Did he request assistance or was he sure? Organised? Excited, or sad?
Suddenly my mind is full of questions I’d never considered before. Did he grab the first packet of notecards that he saw? Did he have a practice round? Did he make mistakes and rip them up angrily? Did he have other options that never made it to the final ten? Did he make a list? How long did he plan it? Was it all in one day? A spur of the moment decision, or did he take his time? There were no errors in his notes, he must have taken his time, or made a few attempts. I never did find the attempts. He wrote with blue pen, did he experiment with other colours? Did the blue mean something to him? Should it have meant something to me? Did he even care what colour or what paper he was using, did he know how much I would analyse every single part of his gifts?
Did he stand here, crying, a cane keeping him upright, as my crutches do now, feeling dizzy, scouring the shelves of paper, just fucking paper, trying to find a way to communicate to ensure he’ll be remembered. Worrying about not being remembered. Grasping at every last straw to lengthen his life when he ran out of treatments, terrified of being forgotten. Thinking his whole life has come to this moment, choosing paper for his final words for a person he’ll never see again.
‘Are you OK?’ asks the sales assistant.
‘Yes,’ I say, angrily, wiping my eyes roughly. ‘Superglue. I also need superglue.’
I call Joy and apologise for deserting them. I reveal my change of heart. She is gracious and appreciative, despite my abandoning them for such a long time when time of all things is most precious in their lives. I arrive early for the club in Joy’s home, before everyone else turns up, and ask her to give me time alone so that I can set up the conservatory.
I remove the stationery from the shopping bags, discard the packaging and lay the paper, cards and envelopes out neatly and in line on the table. I place a bunch of fresh flowers and light some candles between the little piles of stationery. I sprinkle petals around the stationery. The room smells of fresh avocado and lime. When I’m finished, I step back. It’s like a papyral sacrificial offering; a handwritten note for a life.
They’ve all arrived, minus Bert, while I’ve been working, and they wait patiently in the kitchen. It’s taking me longer to set up than I expected. It’s more of a moment than I ever could have imagined, and now that I’m feeling it, I want to make it as good as it can be. I call them all into the room, Joy leading the way. She halts when she sees the display.
‘Oh,’ she says, hand going to her chest, her open palm across her heart.
Paul folds his arms and his jaw works as the emotion takes over. His eyes survey the display. Ginika holds on tightly to Jewel in her arms.
Joy reaches out to touch the pages, she walks along the edge of the table, fingertips trailing the tips of the pages. She picks one up, feels it, places it down again. It’s hypnotic, watching her. Paul and Ginika don’t move, don’t dare distract her. It’s a moment. Then suddenly Joy lets out a sob and dissolves. We all rush to her and Paul gets to her before I do, she falls against him, weak in his arms. I stand back, shaken. Then Ginika too steps forward and wraps her free arm around Joy. Paul widens his arm and welcomes them into his embrace.
Tears prick my eyes.
They’re running out of time, but they’re running out of time together.
When they break up, they wipe their eyes, laughing, embarrassed, and blow their noses.
Ginika moves closer to the table. ‘Which one do you like, Jewel?’ She lowers herself to a level where Jewel can reach the paper. Jewel looks at the table, at all the pretty colours and reaches her hands out, kicks her feet excitedly at something new. She reaches for the pink, bangs her hand on the surface as though playing a drum. Then she quickly grabs the paper and crumples it, raises it high in the air, shakes it up and down.
Ginika grins. ‘You like that?’
Jewel lowers the paper from above her head and studies it, eyes wide. She crumples it in her hand, curiously feeling its texture.
‘We’ve chosen ours,’ Ginika says, confidently.
‘Job done,’ Paul says, ‘Well done, Jewel.’
It’s only paper, but it’s not. They’re only words, but they’re not. We’re only here for such a short time, the paper will outlive us all, it will scream, shout, roar, sing our thoughts, feelings, frustrations, and all the things that go unsaid in life. The paper will act as a messenger for their loved ones to read and hold; words from a mind, controlled by a beating heart. Words mean life.