Heptadecagon

I look at the rumpled piece of paper and toss it into the recycling bin. That's not just paper, Mommy. That's my melted snowball. It can't go into the bin, you know. She brings it back inside, and sets it on the counter, along with the hundreds of other papers that for some reason (or another) do not belong in the recycling bin. I try to put myself in her place. I tie my shoes on-- one of wonder, the other of awe-- and I imagine. The blue construction paper before me becomes the waves up at Walloon Lake. The faded piece of cereal box transforms into a garden in the spring, before the planting has been completed before the season's harvest has been fulfilled. I rifle through the stack of papers, seeing something new something amazing, with each sheet. Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder , I think. And I wonder how much I've been missing because I haven't considered a different perspective. I smile as I realize that once again, ...

I'd already been in the office for a few minutes when she rushed through the wooden doors with a flourish. "I'm sorry," she said as she placed her purse on the chair and her youngster on her feet. "I got a ride from my mom. I don't have a car." "No worries," I replied. "We're good here. Not much to do, yet." I looked at the sweet face of her daughter, who munched on a doughnut hole. "She's so precious...just a cutie." "Thank you." She set about to take off her coat and then began straightening items on the desk. Her name tag read Lillian. We'd both signed up to help clean out the office of the nearby school library as it got ready for renovation, and we had a three-hour shift ahead of us. Most of what we had to do was placing books into boxes and packing up files. Nothing that couldn't be done with a child in tow. Hence, the presence of her daughter, Gemma. She looked around the small space ...