Paper

They say that the traditional gift for your first anniversary is paper.

And I think I may have figured out why.

Paper is what gives a tree life after death.

Though its life in the forest, standing tall among butterflies, its branches dancing in the wind, acting as a launchpad for new birdies may come to an end, it lives on through the words of those who choose to love something that experienced so much death.

It is the living mold of a child’s imagination.

Flying from the balcony of a church, once folded by sticky hands into something that resembles wings, and it can glide through the air with such ease, that it nearly fools you into believing it cuts through the air.

Or, tumbling off that same balcony, falling to its flightless death, convincing you that the air has pushed and tossed it so violently, that it has no hope of gliding.

Paper is the only the thing that has the ability to be what you dream it to be.

It is the only place where you can mold your words, like those tiny hands folded it’s edges, to take flight from your heart. And though you know it will never come close, paper is the one thing that is still willing to try.

So, perhaps, this is why paper symbolizes the first year.