Nap mats, glue sticks, and the ritual of small griefs

I spent my afternoon untangling a nest of name-tag lanyards and sorting crayons by how worn they are, and it hit me that every little thing in this room is a tiny monument to something that already ended. The nap mats especially — who knew the smell of canvas and spilled apple juice could make you philosophical about impermanence? Anyway, I sharpened all the pencils and pretended I was putting ghosts to bed. That's the job, I guess.