'Paper Weight' by Jo Withers

I made your suicide note into a paper boat, set it on a small stream. At first it bobbed along the surface, jaunty and proud, but as it reached the river it became bogged down in the deeper, faster water. I pulled it out before it went completely under, set it in the sun to dry - its base a little tarnished now, beginning to crumble as it dried.

I made your suicide note into an origami butterfly. I folded each line carefully, measuring the distance, balancing its wings. But when I finished, it lay flat and pale, confined to the ground while other brighter butterflies flew above it.

I made your suicide note into a paper plane, took it to the top of the hill and let go. It sailed a few small feet away from me the first time, like it didn’t want to leave me behind. I picked it up again and smoothed the folds, making crisp, aerodynamic angles, reshaping the flimsy material that your heart-heavy hands had touched so recently. Re-sculptured the aircraft to buoy the colossal weight of your words.

I climbed to the hilltop again and let go. This time, it rose into the air, caught by an unexpected warm breeze. I followed its ascent, watched it float high above the trees, pressing onward, pirouetting in the wind.

I hope that you are soaring now, I hope that you are free.