Taylor Graham

She sits across, straightening the already-neat stack of papers.
She’s got your thumbprint. Now she hands you the black pen.
Page 1– your birth, various early unremembered Christmases –
to be initialed. Fifth year, with its Truth in Kindergarten, requires
your signature. This goes forward, Disclosure by Disclosure.
Stuff best forgotten. But how much, exactly, do you owe? She
slips you another page, and another. Graduation. Marriage.
Job and kids. Divorce. A faithful dog. Each signing cancels out
a decade. The dog is dead. And just now as you’re hoping to turn
a new page – fiancee, down-payment on a home – she flips that
cell phone open, snaps your photo as of this very moment, adheres
it to the final sheet with a swipe of glue on finger. Draws a slant
black line across it, right to left. “Sign here,” she says.