I am forced to reconsider folds.

by Ginger Teppner

Last week I sent a piece of art to New York sandwiched safely I presumed between cardboard sheets meant to prevent bends or creases or wrinkles. I was hesitant to relinquish control when I got to the UPS store. The young lady who took my drawing touched it in a manner that bellied her potential for care; even after I explained the importance of this entity arriving undamaged, she failed to re-purpose her touch to the appropriate caress. I should have acknowledged this foreshadow, but I let go mostly because it is difficult for me to impose my concerns on another human, especially one who is working at what I presume to be a less than inspiring job having worked many of these types of jobs myself, and partially because this is what one must do: let go of her beloveds. I let go and hoped for the best. I trusted that while I was certainly no packing expert, perhaps she was. I sent my darling out in the world and hoped she would not be rent asunder. A fold implies the doubling over of, so that one part of it, whatever it may be, covers another. In the case of my drawing the resulting fold is an impression, which suggests a folding has occurred when in fact it has not. Instead, an imperfection in a cardboard sheet meant to protect created an imprint. An imprint that resembles the result of having been folded. For a moment when I realized that my piece had been damaged en route, I felt anger and remorse. Surely, its monetary value to the cause for which it was sent would be lessened. I also felt shame, both for having been a shitty steward of my own work and for being so attached to the work in the first place. This shame quickly transformed into embarrassment, embarrassment for feeling remorse about a shadow fold in a piece of paper. A piece of paper. And then I was embarrassed for feeling grateful that the only doubling over that I am faced with on this day is the empathetic crease of presumption of another’s pain and another and another and another and so many others who sent their flesh and blood darlings into the Orlando evening and hoped they would not be rent asunder. And then I considered the imprint these darlings left behind. How much space the absence of contains as a heart folds onto itself in seismic waves.