Shelf Paper

By Peter Bowden



When she opened the old kitchen drawer, the scent of cedar and dust rose up like a whisper of time. The shelf paper beneath the utensils was faded now, pale blue with tiny white daisies , the same pattern her mother had chosen decades ago. She ran a finger along the edge, feeling the soft curl where years had loosened the glue. It was just paper, but it held the shape of mornings, of spoons tapping against coffee mugs and sunlight slanting through lace curtains.

She remembered helping to measure and cut, the roll unspooling across the table like a ribbon of promise. Her mother had hummed while smoothing it flat, her hands firm and sure. They’d trimmed corners with small scissors, pressing the air bubbles out with the side of a palm. It wasn’t about keeping things neat, it was about starting fresh. Every new pattern, every clean drawer, was a quiet ceremony of order against the world’s chaos.

Now, as she lifted the utensils and peeled away the worn daisies, she found herself humming too. Beneath the paper, the wood still smelled faintly of lemon oil. She laid down a new roll, crisp white with tiny green leaves, and felt something settle inside her. It wasn’t just a drawer lined. It was a life continued; smoothed, pressed, and made ready again for tomorrow.



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