Sticky Pieces of Colored Paper
To the girl who speaks with post-its,
A few weeks ago, I bought a pound of Dad and Grandma’s favorite guilty pleasure —roast duck and crispy suckling pig, the kind that’s been flash-fried in sizzling oil 3 times over.
I hurried home and quickly unpacked the butchered meat. There’s a grease-stained receipt attached to one of the plastic take-out containers—an even $52.00.
The next morning, I find two twenty-dollar bills, a single ten-dollar bill, and two one-dollar bills tucked beneath my desk lamp. I didn’t count the money until after I finished breakfast. An even $52.00. I didn’t make the connection with the number on the receipt until lunchtime later that day. That’s when I collected the money and placed it on Dad’s desk, next to a beige-colored Bible where I flagged the verse from Exodus 20:12 with a pink post-it note. “Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long in the land that the Lord your God is giving you”—the 5th commandment. I add the words: “Parents should never have to pay their children back. Period. For anything.”
At night, I find the beige-colored Bible sitting on my desk with another pink post-it note sticking out, this time flagging the verse from 1 Thessalonians 5:18: “Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” The words “Ok. And thank you for buying the delicious food” are written on the post-it in a style of cursive so neat and precise, so unmistakably my father’s.
Some days, Dad and I don’t get to exchange very many words face-to-face. Like elementary school girls, we send notes back and forth, communicating our love and our care for one another via sticky pieces of colored paper.
Two years ago, now almost three, the pieces of paper were colored grey. They weren’t addressed to anyone in particular, but Dad was the one who found them. Two square post-it notes with all the login information for my school, social media, bank, and email accounts—every number, symbol, and word carefully printed in navy blue ink—the things I thought my family might need once I was gone.
I finish writing out the last digit, cap the ballpoint pen, and walk out the door—towards the river I thought could take my life. With my pockets full of rocks, I submerge myself in the muddy water, hold my breath, and search for something that can keep my body anchored.
For reasons still unknown, my head breaks the surface of the river that night and I turn around. My socks are wet, my sneakers are heavy, specks of dirt stain my shirt. I take a step, then another. I hit the sidewalk and I head for home, where Dad, out of fear, desperation, and obligation, has just shoved the grey post-it notes in the police officer’s face.
Today, I hold them up—the pink and the grey pieces of paper—side by side. I couldn’t find a reason to throw them out. Two of them are written by a young girl prepared to say farewell to this world. The other two, a conversation between father and daughter where this time, he has the chance to write something in response to her. Two of these pieces of paper help me remember where I’ve been. The other two remind me that I’m not there anymore. Together they say that right now, where I am, is good.
Sincerely, Esther
