Today

I sat at my laptop in my aunt’s kitchen. At my side was a freshly brewed cup of Lipton tea, and a small plate of McVities Digestive biscuits, piled in a cylindrical stack. Without looking, I picked up the top piece, broke it in half with one hand, and dipped one half in the steaming tea. I held the biscuit with the tip of my fingers for maximum submersion, the way my dad does it. I waited for a milisecond longer than usual before pulling it out, then tapped the biscuit by the side of the cup to let the tea drain.

The biscuit, heavy and wet, could not sustain its own weight and collapsed on its way to my mouth. It lay in ruins on the edge of the plate, the countertop, broken like pudding. I hastily pinched a piece to salvage it, but it fell apart between my fingers. Using a spoon, I cleaned up the warm mess and ate it all up, because really, digestives dipped in tea are the only things I can eat that I actually like.

—

A book came in the mail today. A hint as to its identity: given its alleged lightness, postage should have been free. That is, if it had come alone. It was accompanied by a thick stack of origami paper, which once had grandiose artistic destinies and are now fostered by me.

I have another book in my room in Boston on modular origami, with full instructions (in Japanese) and color pictures. I wish I have it now, but I guess the Internet should suffice.