Greeting Cards

I passed Art class in middle school, but just barely. Looking down at the greeting card between my fingers makes me question the scale the teachers were using, and why I wasn’t more embarrassed in the 7th grade. I didn’t want to make the fact that this event was forced upon me obvious, but there’s no one here to grade me on it, so I fail myself instead, drawing a large capital ‘F’ with a red color pencil, making the lines thick and imprinted into the paper. I get a new sheet of paper and doodle while I think of something witty and sarcastic, but apparently my creativity took my harsh score to heart and is refusing to help anymore, and I’m not sure this will turn out well. The clock over the window in the kitchen clicks on at a pace that makes me wonder if the batteries are dying, and I feel cold through my thin t-shirt and pajama shorts. I peek down again, just to see if anything has drawn itself with the poised pencil in my hand, but no such luck. Just to feel a semi-satisfaction, I crumple that piece of paper up, too, tossing it towards the general area of the garbage can, a warm snowball against the cool floor tiles. With the final paper in the printer tray, I fold it, hamburger style. I wanted to leave the inside blank, but I finally know what to write, though it isn’t me at all, something from a book I read years ago, reminding me of her. I line the colored pencils up in the order I want to use them, and start to draw. It takes me awhile, though the clock doesn’t mind, and I finish, lead pieces scattered across the table, but that’s not bothering me; what’s bothering me is if my apology was enough to send her soul to heaven.