This is what I did, once upon a time. Pencil in hand, I traced the shapes round and round and round and round until the pattern emerged.
How many times did I follow the curves and bumps, circling round with duller and duller lead, always amazed at the result?
Eventually the contraption made it back to the drawer, put away for the last time by hands too grown up for its repetitious form of art. I didn’t think of it again for years.
Till this day, when a trip to my parent’s house yields a treasure trove of art supplies old and new.
Pencil in hand, they trace the shapes around.
It takes awhile to get the hang of it.
Eventually they are bored or distracted and wander off to find a new diversion.
And I sit at my mom’s dining room table, purple pencil in hand, half-sheet of paper clamped in firmly, and I press the lead down and around.
It is the simple memories, shared with a new generation, that I unwrap today.