Wednesday, October 13, 2021 // The Statement — 4

She loved the way the paper felt against 

her fingertips. She slid her thumb across the 
crisp edge, creating yet another fold — the 
blueprint for what was to take shape. 

Today was a record: Beatrix made 990 

before dinnertime. Only 10 away before the 
job was done. Her hands were cramped and 
papercuts lined the webs of her fingers. The 
burbling of her stomach was a testament for 
the strenuous task. 

Paper cranes. 
This obsession was an attempt at rec-

onciliation, first set off when she stumbled 
upon a how-to book at the local church sale. 
It was a 25-cent manual entitled “The Com-
plete Book of Origami.” It sat with a broken 
binding and water-damaged pages. Much of 
the book was unreadable — the aged mildew 
cemented the paper together and faded the 
script. Luckily for Bea, the diagram instruc-
tions and history of the crane remained per-
fectly intact. 

Its rustic charm was in part why she liked 

the book. There was also the fact that it was 
to be her attempt at salvation. A guidebook 
for the lost. 

Despite the manual’s unruly condition, it 

had a sense of safeness about it. A sense 
that Bea had lacked for the past six 
years. 

December 5, 2015. The day 

her world ended, the day they 
walked out of her life. Not 
even a paper note was left for 
a final goodbye. Such lack 
of closure opened a new 
chapter in Bea’s life, a chap-
ter that detailed her endless 
pursuit of paper. 

At first, she used receipts 

and old National Geographic 
magazines to craft her cranes — the 
only materials she could find on street 
corners or in recycling bins. The printed 
images and ink on the page made it diffi-
cult to make a solid, intentional crease, yet 
the vibrancy of the pictures made up for the 
medium’s poor composition. 

They were colorful creatures each with 

their own pictorial personality. The beaks 
pointed confidently upward; the wings 
slightly misshapen. 

An obsession. Something that con-

sumed her day-to-day activities and spare 
moments. An endless pursuit of paper. 

Such obsession traveled with her every-

where she went. When Bea would go out to 
eat, she would unroll the napkin folder and 
create the first fold — all before the waitress 
could even greet her table.

When Bea would get home from school, 

she would immediately take out her graded 

tests and marked notebook paper to begin 
the craft — all paper birds, a not so helpful 
study tool. 

1,000 of their faceless and nameless bod-

ies joined her paper family each day. 

Though she had a multitude of name-

less, identical birds, Bea had her favorites — 
namely the ones made from newspaper. She 
lingered around the newsstand each Sunday 
as a young boy refilled the box, catching its 
lid before the compartment clicked shut. 
The smell of the fresh press combined with 
the lightness of the paper made for a lively 
crane, one plastered with a variety of words 
and news about climate change or abuse 
scandals, all of which she couldn’t begin to 
understand. 

Paper cranes.
Each had its own story, yet all possessed 

the same intent. Her paper family, now 
more like a paper army, were her remedy. 
The magic elixir to the world’s unavoidable 
afflictions. The cure to nature’s unknow-
able plan. 

She 

began to fold 
each morning until 
all 1,000 were made each night, the water-
logged manual as her origami Bible. 

“According to Japanese tradition, the 

crane lives for 1,000 years. Those who create 
these detailed folds and create 1,000 shall 
therefore be granted one special wish.” 

The short description located at the heart 

of the book was her guiding phrase, a state-
ment that was to change the course of her 
life. An endless pursuit of wishes; wishes 
made of paper. 

Her one wish was never to come true. 

Despite her efforts, she was one paper crane 

too little too late. Her work was never to be 
finished. The wish to bring them back. This 
was why she saw Dr. Lee each Thursday, 
completing her cranes before every appoint-
ment to make up for lost time.

“How are you feeling today Beatrix?” he 

would ask. 

“I am feeling hopeful today.”
Dr. Lee then proceeded to justify her 

grief, eventually asking, “Why don’t you tell 
me about your paper cranes?”

Bea dodged the question each time, pan-

tomiming the folds out of stress. The real 
reason was too painful to explain even to 
a trained professional. She creates cranes 
each day to forget her pain, to wishfully 
attempt to undo it. Not to bring it up to a 
stranger who she believed had no potential 
to ease her hurt. He was not made of paper.

Dr. Lee diagnosed her with OCD and 

depression, remedied with prescription 
medication 
 — a slip of paper signed with a 

messy signature that quickly turned into a 

paper bird. 

All 

1,000 pointed 

faces and tails represented 

a chance at health and healing; a chance 
of continued beauty and grace. A chance 
that she fell short of taking; a chance 
she wouldn’t let slip through her fingers 
again. 

Each night when she went home, she 

would line them on her bedroom floor, cre-
ating a fleet. Although Bea was possessive 
over her paper creations, sometimes she 
would make a few extra to leave behind on 
park benches or headstones. She often felt 
selfish for hoarding so many wishes, there-
fore it was only right to potentially help 

the next girl from taking on an unbearable 
load of grief. Maybe, just maybe, .001% of 
a wish would mean a difference for some-
one who experienced death and loneliness. 
A tangible sign from heaven that Bea was 
the deliverer of. Her role was like that of a 
spiritual intermediary, a role she wished 
someone would fill for her. 

 On a day like this where she had made 

so many in so little time, she would write a 
note to them on the scrap page before fold-
ing it into shape. It was a painful process, 
yet a therapeutic one. Bea wrote in pencil, 
for her mistakes and loss for words were 
plentiful. Her eraser was worn to a mere 
nub. The tiny, rolled shavings brushed off 
the table formed a disorderly pile beneath 
her feet. 

To you. Erase. To the one I miss the 

most. Erase. 

Dear you,
Your birthday is this week, as you know. 

I have been preparing and collecting extra 
scraps to celebrate you. I left one in our 
spot yesterday, one made of newspaper. I 
hope you don’t mind. As an update, I have 
made 2,187,000 wishes to bring you back 

to me. Three more sets of wishes until 

the big day. I hope you are proud of 

me. 

With love. Erase. Please come 
home. Erase. I miss you, Bea.

Unsatisfied.
She crumpled up the 

page. A crime. A death in 
the family. A waste of mate-
rial and energy.

She never could quite put 

into words what she wanted 
to say. She was so angry and 

confused at them for leaving, 

something out of her control that 

she is now so desperately trying to 

understand. 
They would never come back. If they 

wanted to, they would. 2,187,000 are surely 
enough wishes. Yet they are never enough. 

It took her six years and countless ther-

apy sessions to realize this. Beatrix is a 
crumpled piece of paper with irremovable 
damage. No amount of flattening, pressing 
and pleading can undo a crisp crease. No 
amount of folding, wishing and creating 
cranes can bring them back. Too far gone, 
dead. 

She hated the way the paper felt against 

her fingertips. She slid her thumb across 
the crisp edge, undoing the folds — the 
blueprint for what was never meant to take 
shape. 

Paper Cranes. 
She destroyed every single one. 

The incomplete book of origami

BY JULIA MALONEY, STATEMENT ASSOCIATE EDITOR
Design by Megan Young 

Page Design by Sarah Chung