Tissue Snowflakes
I reached into my coat pocket hoping for even a scrap of tissue to wipe my dripping nose as I walked in the crisp, wet cold to Santa Catalina. Unfortunately for the snot trying to take over my upper lip, I found a packet of folded tissues that was almost entirely full. I did a celebration dance in my head as I pulled one out and unfolded this square of soft, dry paper that would be the hero of my morning.
Only it wasn’t a square. Unfolded, it resembled a very rough version of one of those paper snowflakes we made as kids to pass time and decorate for Christmas. I could picture the events that likely led to this perfectly, for it had happened many times before with various items.
What probably happened was our stubborn, mischievous beagle, Olive, sauntered into the master bedroom of our house in Austin while I was busy packing for our move to Spain. I probably removed the tissue packet from the pocket of a coat that wouldn’t make the trip across the Atlantic and set it on the bathroom counter. Then, while I turned my attention to other things, Olive would have recognized this as an ideal opportunity to wreak havoc. I can picture her snatching the packet of tissues from the counter and hauling ass out of the bedroom to enjoy her prize. Shortly after, I probably left the room in search of something (my sanity, maybe?) and caught her with them in her mouth, two folded corners of the packet nibbled all the way through. I know she couldn’t have had it long, otherwise it would not have been deemed salvageable and put into the coat pocket I wore on my way to the Spanish school.
It is this scenario that played in my head as I inspected the unfinished, unplanned, perhaps unimaginative tissue snowflake.
And it undid me.
Because despite all these “uns” that I use to describe Olive’s tissue art, I saw much more than a material with which to smear snot, even ineffectively given the teeth cutouts. It was symbolic and expressive and it was a wholly Olive way to remind me of her adorable mischievousness even from 5,175 miles away. The ache of missing her snuck up on me in the most bittersweet way.
A few sniffly days later when I got to the last of the Olive snowflakes, I found myself still needing more. Not because my nose continued to drip, but because I now had tears in my eyes at having used up all of these paper reminders of her. And how disappointing it was that the Olive from a month ago had obediently not chewed through this next pack of tissues.
